Midnight Coward
by Clara Barton
Summary: After an attempt on Zechs's life, Duo Maxwell is the Preventers agent assigned to discover who might want the infamous prince dead. Of course, considering that Duo wouldn't mind doing the job himself, it's going to be a bit of a challenge. For Crown of Winterthorne
1. Chapter 1

A/N: For Crown of Winterthorne, as a bribe for more of her AMAZING Westworld 2x3 fic.

A/N2: Title from the song by Stars

A/N3: Always, always thankful to Ro for beta reading and friendship. You are amazing.

A/N4: Okay, here's the deal. Writing is tough, especially for me. Over the years I've been lucky to have incredible people support me and tell me how much they enjoy my work, but I've also had those comments and reviews that just completely derail me and make me wonder why the hell I'm doing any of this or why I'm enough of an idiot to think anyone would even care.

So, no, this is not an update on any of the many WIPs I have going, and if you don't enjoy this fic then I am sorry.

But if you do, even a little, I cannot express how much it means to me to see that someone took the time to leave a review. Even if that review is "thanks" - it has a HUGE impact.

Warnings: angst, language, violence, sex, death, blood

Pairings: 6x2, others…

 _Midnight Coward_

Chapter One

There was blood on his right cheek, had been for some time, but over the past two hours it had dried and hardened into a two-inch long scab of sorts.

Every time he moved, every time he opened his mouth to speak or lifted an eyebrow to sneer, he _felt_ it move and it irritated him to no end.

He wanted, _needed,_ to wipe it off.

But his handkerchief was in the breast pocket of his suit jacket, and that had been left behind at the scene of the crime.

He'd be damned if he _rubbed_ it off with his own hands or his shirt sleeve, like some child with a runny nose.

Nor, it seemed, was he to be allowed out of sight - he had had constant supervision, whether it be the very obvious uniformed officer staring intently at him, or the reflective sheen of the mirrored partition on one side of the interrogation room.

Funny, that. He supposed it was a function of his notoriety, of the reputation that still weighed him down ten years after the last shot had been fired in the last war. Even though _he_ hadn't been the one who had attempted murder, he would always be viewed with suspicion.

So, for the last two hours, he had sat with another man's blood hardening on his skin.

And for the last fifteen minutes, as he answered one insufferable and superfluous question after another, he hadn't been able to decide what was more annoying - the dried blood, or the seemingly complete ineptness of the law enforcement officers questioning him.

The woman was only marginally more intelligent than her male colleague, and he had sized the both of them up the moment they stepped into the room and found them wanting.

Depressing to think that they thought he was enough of a danger to keep him in this room, and yet couldn't muster up anyone more intimidating than these two officers, perhaps in their mid-twenties, who were far too young to understand just how little he cared.

"... different than other nights?"

He sighed and forced himself to focus on the sound of their voices.

In addition to the dried blood on his face, he had a headache, and he was fairly confident he had bruised a rib or two.

"Pardon?"

The woman cleared her throat and tried again.

"Was there anything that you did tonight that was different than other nights?"

At least, he admitted, they were making an _attempt_.

"Well," he sighed, and examined the nails of his right hand. There was blood under the index and middle fingers. "I decided to take a gamble and try the venison and red beets tonight. Interesting flavor combination, but not as satisfying as I imagined it would be."

He could see that his answer had exasperated both officers.

"Mr. Peacecraft- I mean, Prince-"

"I already told your superior that my _legal_ name is Zechs Merquise. If your station is this inefficient with routine paperwork notations, my already low confidence in your ability to do _any_ good in this situation has sunk even further."

His words, delivered in the sharp tones he had once used on fresh recruits of the Specials Unit who thought they were God's gift to warfare, had the desired effect.

They both shrunk back in their seats, their expressions turning sullen and sour.

He allowed himself a minute smirk.

All things considered, he had every right to enjoy this at least a little.

"Mr. Merquise," the woman cleared her throat and sat up straighter. He wondered if they were playing some sort of mediocre cop-boring cop in an attempt to get him to open up to them.

He arched an eyebrow at her.

"Mr. Merquise, I can understand how tonight's events might have upset you-"

"Do I appear upset?" he asked with a slight frown.

"N-no," she stammered, looking to her colleague for support.

"I admit that I was rather attached to this shirt." He grimaced as he looked at the blood on the sleeves of the lavender dress shirt. It was a silk-linen blend, and there was no way his housekeeper would be able to do anything to save it.

"Mr. Merquise, we are _trying_ to help you. If you would please just answer our questions, then-"

"Then what, I will be allowed to go?" He was growing bored, and while he _had_ been waiting for his lawyer, or rather, his lawyer's associate, since _she_ had been on vacation in Switzerland when he called her and was likely still on a plane as she made her way back to New York, he had half a mind to simply go ahead and tell these peons _something_ so that he could leave.

"Well..." It was the man who spoke this time, his shifty eyes betraying the fact that he knew what he was going to say would no doubt be upsetting. "We've been instructed to hold you until you can be released into the custody of a Preventers agent."

Zechs couldn't help the sigh of irritation at _that_ news. First, idiot local law enforcement, and _now_ he would have to deal with the irritation of having the Preventers involved in this.

 _Delightful._

Sometimes, he wished he had simply stayed on Mars.

"Now, Mr. Merquise, could you please-"

There was a knock on the door and the man scrambled out of his seat, pathetically eager to answer it.

He stepped outside, leaving Zechs alone with the female officer.

"Do you happen to have a handkerchief?" he asked her, after the silence between them had grown tense enough that she started to shift in her seat.

"Uh, no?"

"How unfortunate."

Her eyebrows knit together in either confusion or irritation - likely some combination of the two - and Zechs took a sip from the paper cup of water on the table. Aside from being instructed to sit, the cup of water had been the only effort at hospitality.

He looked at the woman again and had to wonder - had he killed anyone she knew?

It was a twisted game he played at times, looking at the people around him and wondering just how his actions had impacted them, just how they viewed him.

The door opened again and the male officer walked back in, a tall blond haired man in a dark suit on his heels.

Zechs arched an eyebrow.

The man didn't _look_ like a Preventers agent.

"I'm Mark. Alison sent me to fill in. Her flight lands in four hours."

Zechs nodded. He hoped the unimposing man had at least a fraction of Alison's talent. Likely that was all he would need. The woman was a shark, and Zechs deeply appreciated her service as his lawyer over the last few years.

Mark stepped fully into the room and took a seat beside Zechs.

"Can I ask why my client is being held?" The words were clipped, his tone devoid of all warmth, and Zechs liked him already.

"As I've told Mr. Merquise, a Preventers agent is being sent to take him into custody."

"Why?" Mark asked with a scowl.

"For questioning and-"

"Questioning? Is he being charged with a crime? I thought that even the most cursory examination of the crime scene would make it abundantly clear that Mr. Merquise was the _victim,_ and that his actions were purely in self-defense."

The officers seemed taken aback by Mark's knowledge of the situation.

"I saw the surveillance tapes while I was in transit," Mark said, his tone bored. "Now, can you explain-"

"How did you get them?" the woman interrupted. "Those are-"

"Part of an ongoing investigation, yes, yes, I am aware. Now. Back to _my_ question Ms.…?

"Hernandez. Officer Hernandez."

" _Officer_ Hernandez, if my client is not being charged with a crime, then _why_ do the Preventers need to take him into custody for questioning?"

"I have no idea," she bit out. "I'm simply following the order to hold him here until one of their agents can arrive."

"And just _when_ will that happy moment occur?" Mark asked.

Zechs decided that he liked Mark quite a bit. He was just as acerbic as Alison, and, at least on the surface, appeared just as competent and confident.

"Soon, I'm sure."

Mark made a sound in his throat that managed to articulate a world of skepticism.

Both of the officers across the table flushed, and Zechs allowed himself a smirk.

He wondered what Mark was like in bed.

"I would ordinarily assume that my client has been offered medical assistance, but… all things considered, I feel the need to ask."

The officers stared.

"Has Mr. Merquise been offered medical assistance?" Mark repeated.

"But he's… he's fine. There's not even a scratch on him," the male officer protested. "The EMTs at the scene said he wouldn't let them look at him or anything."

Mark turned to Zechs, one eyebrow raised, and waited for confirmation.

Zechs shrugged one shoulder.

"I'm fine."

Mark's eyes roamed over his face and body, testing the veracity of Zechs's words.

"Have you at least managed to identify the man responsible for the attack on Mr. Merquise?" Mark asked, turning back to the officers.

"Not yet. We're running his prints and dental records through the system. He didn't have any identification on him. Our forensic specialist is still at the site."

"Fascinating. And just _when_ can we expect to know who attempted to murder Mr. Merquise?"

"I, well-"

The door to the room opened suddenly and forcefully, letting in what appeared to be a heated argument.

"...don't give a flying fuck. I showed you my badge. You got a problem with this then call my damn superiors, but you are going to clear those fucking reporters from the front of this station or I'm going to have a unit flown in to escort him from the premises and _then_ we'll see who's making such a big fucking deal."

The words were delivered in an angry, irritated growl, and then the man delivering them stepped into the room, a scowl twisting his face.

Zechs found himself staring.

He had only ever met him twice, just after the second war and then again when Zechs had first returned from Mars and attended a function in the Sanq kingdom.

Even so, Zechs had never actually been this close to Duo Maxwell before, and he found himself thinking that it was no wonder he had been called _Shinigami_ as a youth.

Anger was practically radiating off of him, and he projected a sense of danger that Zechs found to be extremely refreshing. He could feel his pulse speed up a little at the cold, wild look in Maxwell's indigo eyes.

He looked to be of average height - perhaps even on the tall side for a colonist - and while he had certainly filled out his since days as a teenaged terrorist, he was still slight, his broad shoulders only emphasizing the narrowness of his hips.

He also looked as though he had dressed in a rush - dark jeans, a dark button up shirt tucked haphazardly into them, and a threadbare black jacket over that. His disheveled clothes made Zechs grimace, but the haggard expression on Maxwell's face - the deep bruises under his eyes and the pallor of his skin, the sloppy tail of hair over one shoulder - actually piqued his curiosity.

He wondered if the other man had been pulled off of an assignment in a hurry to deal with this situation. It looked like he was suffering from more than getting dragged out of bed in the middle of the night.

Maxwell's deadly eyes landed on Zechs, assessing him for a moment.

Zechs arched an eyebrow and he saw Maxwell's full lips compress, but the man didn't say anything.

Instead, Maxwell turned his attention to the room's other occupants, sizing them up and, based on the way his mouth quirked up in a lopsided sneer, found them wanting.

"And you are?" Hernandez asked.

"Agent Maxwell, from the Preventers New York office. Who are you?"

Hernandez blinked and stared, clearly a little awestruck to be in the presence of one of the infamous heroes of the people. Zechs couldn't help but roll his eyes.

"Officer Hernandez, I'm-"

But Maxwell waved a hand impatiently and shook his head.

"Whatever. You the one who has to sign the paper turning him over to me, or is that someone else?"

Maxwell's sharp tone brought Hernandez back to herself, and her gaze hardened.

"He still hasn't answered all of our questions about what exactly happened. We need a statement and-"

"Jesus. Fine." Maxwell waved his arm imperiously, gesturing at Zechs. "Can you just tell them what they want to know so we can get out of here?"

Zechs found himself perversely amused by Maxwell's irritation, and, if he hadn't been so bored with the situation himself, he might have tried to prolong this just to irritate him further.

Maxwell settled himself against the wall across from the two-way mirror, leaning back and folding his arms and doing a far better job at looking intimidating than the two officers had yet managed.

"Well, we just- we just have a few questions left." It was the man, stumbling through his words, his eyes still wide and his hero worship evident.

 _They aren't even colonists_ , Zechs thought to himself, annoyed and a little disgusted.

"Did you want to ask them?" Maxwell prompted, when neither of the officers immediately asked a question.

"Um," the man looked at the notebook in front of him. "Can you think of anyone who might want you dead?"

Maxwell snorted a derisive laugh, and Zechs watched as he scrubbed one hand over his eyes.

"It might take from now until the end of eternity for him to answer that. I should have finished that cup of motor oil you people insist on calling coffee."

Zechs wondered just where, on the admittedly long list of people who might want him dead, Maxwell placed himself.

Hernandez cleared her throat.

"Well?" she prompted.

Zechs sighed, and Maxwell muttered something under his breath.

"Any number of people might want me dead," Zechs said with a nonchalant shrug. "Few of them, I imagine, have the _means_ to hire an assassin to do it."

Hernandez arched an eyebrow and beside her, Mark shifted uneasily in his seat.

"An assassin?" Hernandez frowned. "What makes you think he was-"

"You said yourself that he didn't have any identification. I didn't recognize him, as I've already said, and he was determined and skilled enough to pose a slight threat. It seems obvious that he was hired to do the job."

"A slight threat?" Hernandez's colleague echoed with disbelief. "You killed him without even breaking a sweat."

"Looks like his hair got a little mussed, though," Maxwell said, offering up another lopsided sneer.

Zechs didn't bother to glare at him.

"He was a professional, and he knew what he was doing," Zechs sighed.

"Okay, then can you think of anyone who would _pay_ to have you murdered?" Hernandez reframed her question.

Zechs's headache had grown from moderate to severe, and the pain in his side meant that each breath he took burned.

"I am a public figure, and there are no doubt individuals who would wish me dead. Frankly, I can't think of anyone with enough motivation to do it."

Hernandez tapped her fingers on the table, looking at him steadily, and Zechs was almost impressed that she wasn't buying it.

"What about someone who knows you well enough to know your… habits? To follow you and attack you at a time and place where you are vulnerable?"

"I've dealt with a few stalkers over the years."

"Dealt with?" the male officer repeated. It seemed to be his main purpose.

Mark jumped in before Zechs could say anything more.

"I think my client has made it clear that he doesn't know who was responsible for this, and I think that he has been more than helpful in answering your questions after a very long and difficult night. If you have any further questions for him, you can forward them to our office," Mark passed a business card across the table, "and I am sure we can accommodate you."

Hernandez took the card, a fierce scowl on her face.

She looked from Zechs to Maxwell.

"Are you going to keep him here while you question him?"

"No thanks." Maxwell pushed himself away from the wall. He regarded Zechs for a moment. He looked just as angry as when he had first walked into the room, but he had also settled, some of the tension leaving him, though Zechs knew it would be a mistake to think that meant the man was any less dangerous.

Maxwell jerked his head towards the door.

"Let's go."

If Zechs wasn't sitting in a place he had absolutely _no_ desire to be in, and if he hadn't been suffering through boredom and irritation for the last two hours, he would have demanded to know _where_ Maxwell intended to go.

As it was, Zechs took his time standing up, pausing to finish his cup of water and offering Hernandez a mock salute with it before he followed Maxwell from the room, Mark just behind him.

There were a fair number of uniformed officers in the halls, loitering and making pathetic attempts to appear busy when, in fact, it was clear that they had only gathered to catch a glimpse of either Maxwell or Zechs.

 _How lucky for them to have two celebrities here_ , Zechs thought.

As they neared the front of the station, Maxwell flipped the lapels of his jacket up and pulled on a black baseball hat that he situated to cast a shadow over his eyes and nose.

Zechs couldn't help but smirk a little at that.

"Surely being seen with me could only improve your reputation."

Maxwell's lips twitched, and he seemed on the verge of offering up a sharp retort, but Mark stepped up beside Zechs.

"My client has had a long night. Unless the Preventers intend to hold him for something, I feel that he should be allowed to return to his home and-"

"Chill out, I'll take him home," Duo grumbled.

"Thoughtful of Une to send a chauffeur, but I have a car service that I prefer to use."

Maxwell's glare turned nuclear at the insult.

"You and I need to talk, and I'm pretty sure it's going to involve things that it's best your lawyer _not_ be privy to unless he's comfortable perjuring himself in court."

Mark frowned at the words.

If it had been Alison, Zechs was confident she would have just arched an eyebrow, folded her arms, and tapped her foot impatiently.

But Mark, it seemed, was no Alison.

He turned to Zechs.

"Do you want-"

"I'll be fine," Zechs cut him off. "Have Alison follow up with me tomorrow. And see to it that the funeral-"

"Yes, Alison is already working out the details."

Zechs nodded in appreciation.

Mark looked uneasy, but he walked past them, out of the station, and Maxwell watched him go, peeking around the open door as if he expected to see someone out there.

"Fucking paparazzi are still out there."

"I don't care," Zechs said.

Maxwell looked back at him.

"Yeah, well, the world's bigger than just you. _Other_ people care that you aren't seen being escorted out of a police station covered in blood."

Zechs arched an eyebrow at that.

 _Other people_.

Of course. Relena, his darling younger sister, had her political career to think of - one didn't get elected to be the youngest Foreign Minister and retain the post by allowing her embarrassing older brother to provide fodder for the gossip rags.

Then again, it could simply be Une, who had no real love for Zechs but still, inexplicably, felt a grudging need to protect him all these years after the death of the man they had both loved.

Maxwell sighed.

"We'll just have to go out the back. Come on."

Maxwell started to walk in the opposite direction, not even looking back to see if Zechs would follow.

That alone irritated him - Maxwell's assumption that he would simply obey commands - but having to walk _back_ through the halls of wide-eyed stares had him ready to snap.

Zechs wasn't sure how Maxwell found the back entrance to the station, but a few minutes later, they were stepping out onto rain-drenched pavement, the glow of the city rising above them but the alley blissfully quiet and still.

"I parked half a mile down," Maxwell gestured.

"Confident I'll survive the walk?"

Maxwell looked over at him, a threat in his expression.

"Who knows? Could be someone's lucky day after all."

Zechs had already assumed that Maxwell felt antipathy towards him, but it was convenient to have it so neatly confirmed.

Maxwell was silent as they walked, for which Zechs was thankful.

Now that he was out of the station, away from the prying, judgemental eyes of the officers and the glare of bright lights overhead, he was starting to feel the full effects of the day.

By the time they made it to Maxwell's car, Zechs's head was pounding and his breathing was labored. If the other man noticed, he didn't say anything.

The car itself, when Maxwell stopped beside it and walked around to the driver's side, gave Zechs pause.

The dark silver body gleamed in the streetlight, the lines of the car those of old Terran classics - nothing like the boxy, contemporary cars that filled the rest of the street. It was a roadster, and emblazoned on the hood of the car was the emblem of a long-defunct American manufacturer.

Zechs looked away from the car and over at Maxwell.

"I had no idea that the Preventers' car pool included Terran classics. Why do they even bother keeping a Stingray in running order?"

"It's not theirs," Maxwell snapped.

Zechs looked at the car again, and then back at Maxwell, studying him with fresh eyes.

That Maxwell had an interest in mechanics was hardly surprising - that he had an affinity for Terran sports cars two centuries old _was_.

"She runs just fine," Maxwell grumbled, mistaking Zechs's hesitation for mistrust.

Zechs had no doubt of that, but he wasn't about to offer up a compliment to the younger man. Instead, he wordlessly climbed into the passenger seat.

It was an effort to hold in a sigh of relief as the leather seat molded around his body and he stretched his legs out in front of him.

Maxwell shifted the car into gear and maneuvered out of the parking spot effortlessly and into the flow of traffic.

"Preventers headquarters is in Midtown," Zechs casually pointed out when Maxwell headed towards the Upper West Side.

"Why would I take you to HQ? I said I would take you home."

That Maxwell knew where he lived bothered Zechs. It wasn't as if his whereabouts were a secret, but he still didn't like having a former terrorist - a former enemy, probably not even _former_ \- knowing where he slept.

Zechs felt off-balance, and it was a rare enough occurrence that he wasn't entirely sure how to regain his equilibrium.

-0o-

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: For Crown of Winterthorne, as a bribe for more of her AMAZING Westworld 2x3 fic.

A/N2: Title from the song by Stars

A/N3: Always, always thankful to Ro for beta reading and friendship. You are amazing.

A/N4: Okay, here's the deal. Writing is tough, especially for me. Over the years I've been lucky to have incredible people support me and tell me how much they enjoy my work, but I've also had those comments and reviews that just completely derail me and make me wonder why the hell I'm doing any of this or why I'm enough of an idiot to think anyone would even care.

So, no, this is not an update on any of the many WIPs I have going, and if you don't enjoy this fic then I am sorry.

But if you do, even a little, I cannot express how much it means to me to see that someone took the time to leave a review. Even if that review is "thanks" - it has a HUGE impact.

A/N5: HOLY CRAP! Thank you to EVERYONE who left a review. I really appreciate the encouragement, and the excitement and just… seriously, thank you all so very, very much.

Warnings: angst, language, violence, sex, death, blood

Pairings: 6x2, others…

 _Midnight Coward_

Chapter Two

Maxwell parked illegally, but he simply pulled out a hanging placard with a bright red P on it and hung it from his rearview mirror.

"That's useful," Zechs muttered.

Maxwell smirked.

"Gotta be some kind of perk to this fucking job," he muttered, as he turned off the ignition and climbed out of the car.

Zechs wondered at the tone and the words - Maxwell was surely too young to be bitter already about his government career.

Then again, Zechs had always wondered just what had driven three of the former Gundam pilots to join the Preventers. Wufei Chang, he understood, and even Trowa Barton made a certain amount of sense, but Duo Maxwell? The anarchist who had been so anti-government that even the invitation to join an organized rebel group had been met with derision? Zechs had a hard time reconciling that boy with the man escorting him into his apartment building now.

Duo opened the door, getting to it before the doorman could, and he held it open with gesture of mock deferment.

Zechs walked ahead of him into the marble-floored, mirror-walled lobby.

He felt immediately more at ease in the familiar surroundings. That irritated him a little, made him reflect on just how long it had been since his life had been in danger on a daily basis, and he had the unwelcome realization that he was _old_.

As Leo, the nightshift doorman, got up from his desk and approached them, Zechs saw his eyes widen.

However, _he_ wasn't stricken with bafflement by being in Maxwell's mere presence. Instead, Leo's entire focus was on Zechs.

"Sir, are you-"

Zechs waved him off, lips thinning at the concern in his voice.

"I'm fine, Leo. Just tired."

Leo frowned, but he wasn't in a habit of arguing. Instead, he looked over at Maxwell. His frown deepened, and Zechs made a mental note to give him more money for Christmas this year - that look alone earned it.

Leo looked back at Zechs.

"He's with me," Zechs sighed, biting back the urge to add that under _no_ circumstances was Maxwell here in the same capacity that most of the men Zechs brought through the lobby were.

"Very well."

Leo sounded like he wasn't entirely sure he _should_ allow the former Gundam pilot into the elevator with Zechs, but he summoned it all the same.

While they waited, Zechs glanced at the nearest wall and grimaced at his reflection.

The long scab wasn't, it turned out, the only blood on his face. There were spatters of it across his nose, forehead and other cheek. He looked a little like a madman, and even the warm glow of the lobby lights did nothing to diminish the shadows under his eyes. And his hair, as Maxwell had pointed out earlier, was indeed mussed.

Zechs fought back the urge to set it to rights, and used his finely-honed self-control to force his hands to remain by his sides and his posture casual as the elevator door opened and he and Maxwell stepped into it.

"Good evening, sir," Antonio greeted them. Like the rest of the staff, seeing Zechs this early in the morning wasn't a surprise, but, also like Leo, Antonio wasn't quite able to keep the shock off his face when he took in Zechs's appearance.

"Good evening, Antonio," Zechs responded.

He saw Maxwell quirk an eyebrow, and idly wondered what the other man was thinking.

The elevator took them up to the sixteenth and top floor, opening directly into the foyer of Zechs's apartment, and Maxwell raised his eyebrow again.

"Have a good evening, sir," Antonio said as they stepped out.

"Thank you."

Zechs started to walk into his apartment, but Maxwell stopped him by reaching out and splaying his left hand over Zechs's chest. In his other hand, Maxwell had a gun. Zechs hadn't even seen him draw it.

"Why not let me go first," Maxwell suggested.

"A driver _and_ a bodyguard? My, how versatile you are."

Maxwell scowled at him, but stepped forward, his feet soundless on the wooden floor despite the size and thickness of the boots he wore.

Zechs waited while Maxwell presumably ensured that his apartment was safe, and when the Preventers agent returned to the foyer a few minutes later, he looked slightly disgruntled.

Zechs arched an eyebrow.

"Don't tell me you're disappointed there wasn't _another_ murderer waiting for me?

Maxwell scowled.

"This place is huge," he muttered.

"Generally, that's the idea of a penthouse apartment," Zechs crisply informed him as he finally walked into his apartment.

The lights, programmed to always be on at night on low levels in the foyer, living room, dining room, kitchen and library, brightened as Zechs stepped into the kitchen and pressed his palm against the wall sensor.

Maxwell's discomfort grew even more obvious with that, as the brighter lights revealed not just the size of the apartment but the floor to ceiling windows on the outside perimeter of the apartment and the view of the city.

Zechs ignored him, however, and reached into the freezer for the bottle of tequila he kept there.

He poured himself a shot and threw it back, and then decided what the hell and had two more before replacing the bottle and setting the shot glass in the sink.

Maxwell was watching him, his face surprisingly neutral.

"Now that you've escorted me home and ensured that my domicile is assassin free, shouldn't you be scurrying back to Preventers to let them know you've cleaned up my mess?"

Maxwell snorted.

"You think getting you out of there was cleaning up your mess? There's still two dead bodies to deal with - the press fallout from _all_ of this - and the fact that someone hired an assassin to kill you. Your _mess_ is going to take a lot more than me throwing my weight around a fucking police station to clean up."

Maxwell looked almost furious by the end of his tirade.

"Would it be easier if next time I simply let myself be killed?"

"It probably fucking would. You don't- I get that you still think the world fucking revolves around you, but it doesn't, and the shit you get into impacts _everyone_. So next time someone comes at you with a knife, yeah, do us all a favor and let them gut you."

It took a moment - a tense, dangerous moment of silence as the two men glared at each other - but then Maxwell drew in a deep breath and released it in a shaky exhale. He rubbed his face with one hand.

"Sorry. That was- out of line."

Zechs felt his lips twitch into the closest thing to a smirk he had felt all night.

He accepted Maxwell's graceless apology with a nod.

That little interlude had given the tequila enough time to start working through his system, and Zechs welcomed the heat and languor in his body.

He started to unbutton his bloody shirt, carefully removing the onyx cufflinks from the french cuffs and setting them on the hall table first.

"What are you- what the hell are you doing?" Maxwell demanded as Zechs shrugged out of the garment.

Zechs ignored him and huffed in disgust when he saw the blood had soaked through the dress shirt and into his undershirt. He pulled that off as well, grimacing as it stuck to him a bit.

"Merquise, what-"

" _You_ might find it perfectly comfortable to lounge around covered in the blood of dead men, but _I_ find it a little repulsive. Perhaps it's something to do with how I was raised."

Maxwell sneered.

" _You_ have a problem being covered in blood? Well, yeah, I guess that makes sense. You're not used to it being so up close and personal, are you? But it's not always a _game_ you get to play in the safety of a cockpit." Maxwell spread his arms wide. "Forgive me for not appreciating how _delicately_ you were brought up."

Zechs glared at him, but Maxwell glared right back.

Maintaining their furious eye contact, Zechs reached down and started to unfasten his belt and trousers. He toed off his shoes while he did so, looking down and seeing that they too had spatters of crusted dark brown blood.

"What-"

"I'm going to take a shower. Assuming, of course, that you managed to find it and ensure that it was _safe_ for me?"

Judging by the look on his face, Maxwell was likely hoping that it was anything _but_ safe.

Zechs shoved the trousers - also stained with blood - and his briefs down to his ankles, and then pulled off his socks.

Naked, he arched an eyebrow at Maxwell.

The younger man's cheeks were pink, and he had to jerk his gaze up to meet Zechs's eyes again.

"Care to join me?" Zechs offered the invitation with a sneer.

Maxwell's cheeks went from pink to red, and his lips were pressed so tightly together they were almost invisible.

"I'll pass," he growled.

Zechs turned his back on the other man and started to walk towards the master suite.

He paused at the edge of the living room.

"Make yourself useful," he said, turning his head enough to see that Maxwell had been watching him walk away. "Get rid of those clothes."

He didn't wait for Maxwell's reaction to the order, preferring instead to picture in his mind the look of fury on his face.

The shower was both invigorating and a reminder of just how sore he was. Zechs stood under the spray of near-boiling water for a long time, scrubbing his skin until it was red and his nails gleamed.

He didn't let himself think, didn't let his mind reflect on just _how_ he'd ended up spattered in blood or with bits of another man's skin under his nails; he just immersed himself in the uncomfortably hot water and gave himself over purely to the sensation.

Despite the age of the building, the water pressure and hot water tank were impressive, and Zechs had no idea just how long he had been in the shower before the water started to turn cold and he finally decided to turn it off.

His hair was plastered to his head and back, and he hadn't had the energy to wash or condition it in the shower. He scowled as he ran his fingers through it and the fine strands tangled. That had been a mistake.

Irritated with himself, Zechs jerked a comb through it and then swept the wet strands up into a bun at the back of his head.

It wasn't a look he preferred, but he wasn't in the mood to blow it out, and he couldn't very well leave it _down_ in this state.

He took his time dressing, pulling on clean briefs and an undershirt before going into his closet and selecting a pair of gray trousers and a pale blue sweater to put on.

Fully dressed, he felt a bit more like himself. But when he stepped back into the bathroom and saw his reflection in the fog-tinged mirror, he could see there was still too much emotion in his eyes.

He should have had another shot or three of the tequila.

Maxwell wasn't in the living room or kitchen - both he and the pile of discarded clothes had vanished, and Zechs felt a brief moment of relief.

But, of course, life wasn't about to give him such an easy out.

He found Maxwell in the library, seated at Zechs's desk, his battered jacket draped over the back of the chair and his pale face washed in the frosty blue light of the computer.

"Find anything interesting?" Zechs was proud that he managed to sound mildly interested instead of infuriated at the additional intrusion.

Maxwell looked up, not in the least bit apologetic or embarrassed at having been caught snooping.

"Your security firewalls need some work."

Zechs felt a muscle in his jaw twitch.

"I'll mention it to my IT expert."

"Should probably just fire him. Took me about five seconds to get through them."

Maxwell stood up from the desk, and he looked over Zechs's attire before lifting his eyebrows.

"You sleep dressed like that?"

"I was unaware that you planned on having a _slumber party_."

Maxwell flushed again.

"I just meant-"

"I sleep naked, Maxwell, and as much as I'm sure you miss the chance to stare at my cock, I'm not interested in having to clean your _drool_ off of the floor. You mentioned something about us needing to _talk_?"

Maxwell looked nearly murderous, but after a moment, he folded his arms across his chest and he leaned back against the wall of bookshelves behind the desk.

"You need to tell me just what the fuck happened tonight."

"I already gave a statement to-"

"I don't give a shit what you told them. You lied at least three times while _I_ was there, and I was only there for ten minutes."

"My lawyer said there were surveillance tapes. If _he_ managed to see them, I'm sure that the Preventers can use their infinite resources to-"

"Merquise, I've been given a lot of leeway on how to deal with this situation."

Zechs snorted.

"Are you actually _threatening_ me?"

Maxwell sneered.

"I'm _informing_ you that I can clean up your mess in any damn way I please. We'd prefer to do it the quiet way - which means you tell me what the fuck happened and I deal with it from there. Or, if you want to continue playing these games, then first thing tomorrow morning I go back to that police station and tell them that we're opening an investigation into last night's events and I need all of their information, and _then_ I have one of Prev's PR reps host a press conference asking for anyone with any information to come forward, and _then_ I start investigating the board of your little company, showing up at their country clubs and _penthouses_ and asking all sorts of questions about money laundering and government bribes and whatever the fuck else I want to ask because I _can_."

Zechs had seen the footage of Maxwell, the scrawny fifteen year old captured by OZ and interrogated with such brutality that it had turned Zechs's stomach even then. He hadn't broken, no matter what was done to him, and in between his screams of agony he had kept up an almost nonstop stream of invective, promising all manner of vengeance and insulting his interrogators in at least five different languages.

He'd wondered if that Maxwell still existed, wondered if he had survived two wars and the subsequent bureaucratic battles to form a pacifist Earthsphere government.

It had been a very long time since anyone had had the temerity to speak to Zechs like Maxwell just had. Maybe it was the tequila, but it made him feel almost nostalgic.

"What, precisely, do you want to know?" Zechs asked.

Maxwell blinked, clearly surprised by his capitulation and his even tone.

"For starters, why would Ilija Horvat try to assassinate you?"

"Who?"

Maxwell gave him a steady look.

"Am I to assume that was the name of the assassin?"

Maxwell sighed.

"Merquise, like I said, I can make this-"

"Your confidence in my omniscience is appreciated, but I have never heard that name before."

After another moment of studying Zechs's face, Maxwell seemed to take him at his word.

"He's a Croatian national. _Was_. He fought in the first war - on your side, in the infantry - and after the military dissolution, he started doing contract work; small shit in South America, mostly, but a few years ago he moved into the big leagues when he killed Breskev."

"The L1 ambassador?"

Maxwell nodded.

"Yeah. After Breskev, he took out Lin, Rutger-Smith, Tidwell... That mining facility owned by the Winner Corp? That was him too."

"Ah. And I imagine it was after _that_ incident that the Preventers began to take an interest in him. Tell me, how much money _does_ Quatre Winner funnel into his little private army?"

Maxwell continued as if Zechs hadn't spoken.

"Then there was the American president, the bombing of the conference in Singapore last year. Actually, you're probably the least significant mark he's taken on in five years, now that I think about it."

Zechs arched an eyebrow. It had been far, _far_ too long since he had spoken to anyone like Maxwell.

"Did you ever meet, during the war?" Maxwell continued his interrogation.

"It's doubtful. I didn't associate with infantrymen. Where was he stationed?"

Maxwell rolled his eyes.

"China - had a tour in Russia just before the end of it all."

"And his training?"

Maxwell pushed away from the bookshelves and walked over to one of the leather armchairs situated by the fireplace on the interior wall of the library.

He sat down, without asking, and sprawled his legs out in front of him with all the ease and nonchalance of someone completely at home.

"He was at New Magnus in Spain."

Maxwell seemed impervious to Zechs's resentful glare, and as much as Zechs himself wouldn't mind sitting down, he wasn't about to do so and make Maxwell's behaviour seem acceptable.

"I toured the facility once, a year before the war."

Maxwell lifted one eyebrow, steepling his fingers in front of his face and looking at Zechs over them.

"Considering that it probably takes all of five seconds for you to piss someone off, maybe that's all it took."

"Yes, no doubt a five-second encounter offended him _so_ much that he decided to wait ten years before attempting to kill me."

Maxwell shrugged.

"Maybe the opportunity just arose and he figured he would mark you off his to-do list."

Zechs gave him a look.

"Okay, so if we assume Horvat hasn't been sitting on a decade-old grudge, who have you pissed off enough that they'd hire a world-class assassin to get rid of you immediately?" Maxwell asked, _his_ question far more pointed than the superficial ones the police officers had asked. "Because, let me assure you, there are masses of people who'd probably off you for free if they had the time to spare, but clearly you've made an enemy who needs your immediate removal."

"Volunteering for the job?"

Maxwell looked him over slowly, and then shrugged one shoulder, an insolent smirk on his face.

"I don't normally attack old men, but I'm not willing to rule it out."

 _Old_. Zechs was, at most, maybe six years older than Maxwell.

"Nice deflection, by the way, but I'm not some low-salaried beat cop intimidated by your princeliness. Answer the question."

"And as I said at the station, I am a public figure. There are any number of people who might want me dead."

"For fuck's sake - I'm actually trying to _help_ you here. Why won't you just fucking cooperate?"

Zechs allowed himself a moment to bask in Maxwell's irritation.

"Just what sort of _help_ are you offering? I already took care of Horvat."

"Okay, and what about the next guy that comes after you? You might want to get your ribs looked at, by the way. Might just feel like bruising, but if they're broken, you never know, they might puncture something vital and you might bleed to death. Or suffocate. Or drown in your own blood if they get your lungs." Maxwell sounded almost euphoric as he listed off the ways that Zechs could die.

Zechs was surrounded by civilians almost all of the time, and he realized that as much as he _thought_ he had kept himself in shape, had kept his senses honed and his healthy paranoia simmering below all of his decisions, he realized that he had been fooling himself. Less than an hour in Duo Maxwell's presence, and Zechs had felt the sharp taste of adrenaline more than once, had felt his body respond to the warning signs of just being in the other man's presence, and he'd _missed_ it.

Ironic that the run-in with Horvat had affected him far less.

Then again, that had been a frantic, abbreviated blur - the whole thing over in less than ten minutes. Maxwell was a sustained onslaught on _all_ fronts.

Maxwell was still looking at him, but Zechs had no desire to respond to him.

"Fine," Maxwell sighed, and shrugged. Zechs wondered just how the younger man managed to make the motion look so fluid when he was sitting in a high-backed chair.

"Can you think of anyone else who might be carrying a grudge from the war?"

Zechs gave him a look.

"Present company excluded," Maxwell amended, with his lopsided sneer back in place.

"No one with the resources to hire Horvat."

"You mentioned stalkers, before."

He had. It had been a mistake, and he had hoped - in vain - that Maxwell hadn't been paying attention.

"I'm sure you've had to deal with them as well."

Maxwell shrugged again.

"I'm not a - what do you keep calling yourself? I'm not a _public figure_ like you are."

It was hardly a response to Zechs's statement, and Zech wondered just what sort of post-war encounters Maxwell _had_ had to deal with.

"How did you deal with them?" Maxwell asked.

Because of course he had caught _that_ slip too.

"Private security forces can come in very handy."

"Where were they tonight?"

"I usually dismiss them when I have companions."

Maxwell silently echoed the word, his lips forming _companions_ and then tilting into another sneer.

"Funny, that. Never would have pegged you for the type who needed to pay to fuck. Then again…" Maxwell trailed off, his eyes dark and judgemental.

Unperturbed, Zechs merely lifted an eyebrow and gave Maxwell his most patronizing look.

"I assure you, Maxwell, that I have no need to pay for companionship. I _pay_ for a certain amount of expertise and aesthetic quality." Zechs let his eyes rake over Maxwell's nearly prone form, letting his own distaste and judgement show on his face and in his voice. "If all I wanted was an inept, fumbling _fuck_ , I could easily find one. Couldn't I?"

Maxwell flushed again, his face as red as it had been when he had been caught staring at Zechs's cock earlier.

He recovered quickly though, still lounging in his seat, still looking at Zechs with murder in his eyes, his voice cold and languid and dangerous when he spoke again.

"Was he one of your regulars, then? Nick Sousa?"

"It wasn't the first time I used him, no."

"Was he your type or something - young and damaged? Weak?"

Zechs arched an eyebrow.

"Sorry, sorry," Maxwell held up one hand. "Is that just an aspect of his _aesthetic quality_? I assume he had the required amount of expertise, seeing as how he has a record of getting picked up for solicitation going back to when he was thirteen. Not that that was all that long ago - only nineteen, and he's a dead whore. Seems like a waste."

Zechs felt a muscle in his jaw twitch again as he held himself in check. He had managed to _mostly_ resist rising to Maxwell's baits before now. He refused to give in when it mattered, when Maxwell sat there carelessly insulting an innocent boy who had _died_ just hours ago. A boy who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and who was now dead because of Zechs.

All of the things he had kept himself from thinking about, from feeling, started to crack through his resolve.

Nick had arrived at the brothel room only minutes before it happened, had just finished undressing and was kneeling at Zechs's feet, nuzzling his ankle and begging Zechs to use him, when the knock at the door came. Zechs had risen to his feet, brushing Nick's hair out of his eyes and telling him to wait while he answered the door.

The man - _Horvat_ \- had been on the other side, gun already out, and Zechs had slammed the door closed on his hand, causing him to fire wildly, before Horvat forced his way inside. They fought, Zechs prying the gun from his injured hand and flinging it away, Zechs having the upper hand until Horvat pulled a knife, until he threw Zechs into the entertainment console and kicked his side, hard, and stood looming over him, a triumphant smirk on his face.

And then Nick - idiotic, loyal Nick - had thrown himself at Horvat, had taken the knife to his gut with wide eyes and an animalistic howl.

Zechs had immediately lashed out, surging to his feet and charging Horvat, wrenching the knife from his grip and using it to slash the man's throat, the warm spray of his blood leaping onto Zechs's face and clothes.

Nick had died quickly, in a great deal of pain, and he had cried, as Zechs cradled his body and cursed the EMTs who seemed to be taking an impossibly long time to arrive. Nick had apologized - had _apologized_ \- as though he had done something wrong, as though _any_ of this was his fault at all.

Nick hadn't been the only one who had cried, but at least Zechs had waited until the light had faded from the boy's eyes, had managed to hold himself together and offer comfort to him as he curled into himself and blood gurgled from his lips.

"So are you just that good a fuck?" Maxwell continued, unaware of Zechs's turmoil and uncaring. "Or is it that you _pay_ that well? I mean, how much do you have to pay a whore to be willing to die for you? Then again, if _you_ were what he had to look forward to, he was probably pathetic enough to-"

It was more than Zechs could take, and he finally lashed out.

Maxwell was caught off-guard for a second, but he was already scrambling out of the chair by the time Zechs reached him.

His foot got tangled up with the leg of the chair, though, and Zechs used that advantage to latch onto Maxwell, grabbing his shoulder and wrenching it back, barely satisfied with the grunt of pain that passed from the other man's lips.

Maxwell twisted, his fist catching Zechs's cheek, and from there it was just a blur.

Zechs was out of practice - his twice-weekly boxing matches at the gym did nothing to prepare him for the dirty, survivalist fighting that Maxwell knew.

They both landed blows, both grunted and gasped and cursed as they went from upright and struggling to losing their balance and rolling on the floor.

Zechs wasn't sure how long they grappled, wasn't even sure it was his own blood he tasted in his mouth by the time he pinned Maxwell beneath him, using his greater weight and size to keep him down.

He had a hand around Maxwell's neck, just short of crushing his windpipe, and he was amazed at how delicate, how _fragile,_ the other man seemed in this position.

And then he felt the sharp press of metal against his own throat.

It was the letter opener, from Zechs's desk.

Before he could even wrap his head around just _what_ had motivated Maxwell to pocket the tool when he had been using Zechs's computer, he registered the fact that the letter opener wasn't the _only_ thing Maxwell seemed intent on stabbing him with.

Zechs released the other man's neck and eased back, a sneer on his face that made it clear he had felt Maxwell's erection.

The younger man lay on the floor, breathing heavily, his eyes unfathomable.

"And to think you have the audacity to call Nick _pathetic_? At least he demanded payment for his services. You're a heartbeat from begging me to fuck you right here, on the floor of my apartment."

Zechs rose to his feet, and Maxwell scrambled to his own, all of that boneless grace he had had when sitting in the chair evaporated.

His face was a dark, angry red, and his fists were clenched.

"This is tiresome," Zechs continued. He was exhausted, and his body had been sore before, but now, after their tussle, he wanted nothing more than to drink himself into unconsciousness. "I'm sure you can show yourself out. If you have any further questions, contact my lawyer."

Zechs turned his back on Maxwell, walking over to the desk and pulling Alison's card from the top drawer.

He flicked it in Maxwell's direction, his satisfaction at seeing it hit him on the cheek dampened when the man managed to catch it before it fell to the ground.

He stood there, glaring down at him, until Maxwell turned on his heel and stalked from the room, stopping only to drop the letter opener on a side table.

Zechs listened to him stomp through the apartment, waited until he heard the faint _ding_ of the elevator doors opening, and only then did he allow himself to relax.

Only then did he give in and return to the kitchen for the bottle of tequila.

He didn't bother with the shot glass this time. He uncapped the bottle and took it into the living room before collapsing onto the floor, in front of his couch.

He leaned back against it as he swallowed down the fiery liquid.

It did nothing to alleviate the pain.

-o-

TBC

Next up is a Duo POV chapter. We're going to go back and forth between them - so there WILL be more Zechs POV for all of you who love it.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: For Crown of Winterthorne, as a bribe for more of her AMAZING Westworld 2x3 fic. A/N2: Title from the song by Stars A/N3: Always, always thankful to Ro for beta reading and friendship. You are amazing. A/N4: Okay, here's the deal. Writing is tough, especially for me. Over the years I've been lucky to have incredible people support me and tell me how much they enjoy my work, but I've also had those comments and reviews that just completely derail me and make me wonder why the hell I'm doing any of this or why I'm enough of an idiot to think anyone would even care. So, no, this is not an update on any of the many WIPs I have going, and if you don't enjoy this fic then I am sorry. But if you do, even a little, I cannot express how much it means to me to see that someone took the time to leave a review. Even if that review is "thanks" - it has a HUGE impact. A/N5: POVs are going to switch back and forth between Duo and Zechs. Might be two chapters in each or just one, depends on the pacing. Warnings: angst, language, violence, sex, death, blood Pairings: 6x2, others…

 _Midnight Coward_ Chapter Three It was difficult for Duo to fall back into his old routine. After seven weeks without setting an alarm clock, it was alien and unwelcome to hear the shrill bleat of it at seven am. Even more unwelcome considering the fact that he had only had two and a half hours of sleep, and even that precious little sleep had been restless and uneasy. Duo slapped ineffectually at the alarm clock, until he sent the thing flying off of the nightstand and it crashed to the floor and fell silent. He lay in his bed for another few minutes, staring up at the ceiling and wondering how the _fuck_ his life had come to this. Not surprisingly, the ceiling had absolutely no answers for him. Tracing the minute cracks in the plaster, however, proved a long enough distraction that the secondary alarm he had programmed on his phone started to go off. With an irritated grunt, Duo sat up in the bed and looked around for it. Last night, or rather _early_ this morning, when he had finally made it home, Duo had shed his clothes as he made his way through the narrow studio apartment, carelessly tossing his jacket onto the back of the futon, toeing his shoes off while he used the open doorframe of the bathroom for support, not bothering to fully unbutton his shirt but instead just working the top two buttons free and then shucking out of it and dropping it on the floor before unfastening his jeans and shoving both those and his boxers down and kicking free of them before sitting on the edge of his bed, naked except for his socks. _Pathetic,_ Merquise had called him. Duo had been called worse - and had been called pathetic _for_ worse. Even so, he agreed; he _knew_ that it was pathetic, hell, _beyond_ pathetic that a man he despised managed to make Duo feel like he was launching into a pitched MS battle with just a few pointed verbal attacks. Worse than that, grappling with Merquise on the floor of the fucking _library_ in his apartment had made Duo feel more alive and hell, more turned on, than he had in months. Merquise had been right, too. Duo probably had been a heartbeat away from begging the other man to fuck him. It was humiliating, and once again, Duo had found himself at the mercy of an enemy who really didn't give a flying fuck about pulling his punches. Merquise had dismissed Duo like an incompetent servant, no doubt putting the whole night from his mind the moment Duo left his sight. While Duo couldn't help but replay it over and over again on his drive home. He paid little attention to traffic signals and speed limits at the best of times, and while he tried to remember just how it had felt to have Zechs's weight pressing down on him, the flex of the other man's arms and thighs as they fought for superiority, the ragged sound of Merquise's breathing and the low, primal growl from the man as he finally managed to pin Duo down - well, Duo made it home in record time, the Preventers plates on his car likely the only thing saving him from a slew of traffic infractions. Even as he told himself just how pathetic he really was, even as he felt disgusted with himself for doing it, Duo reached for the lube he kept in the nightstand beside his bed and set about taking care of the hard-on he had had since fighting with the older man. Kneeling alone on his bed, eyes squeezed shut tightly while he tried to imagine Merquise's hands on him again, tried to recapture the frantic adrenaline that had pulsed through his body as Merquise gripped his throat and straddled his thighs, Duo fingered himself and tugged at his hard cock with brutal efficiency. The orgasm he managed to wrench from his body had felt violent, leaving him shaking and bent over, breathing heavily while stars sparked behind his still-closed eyes. After he had recovered, after the slightly nauseous and all too familiar feeling of self-recrimination had started to settle in, Duo rose from the bed and cleaned himself off in the bathroom, wiping his ass and cock and then scrubbing his hands. He glared at his reflection in the mirror, at the man he had long-ago decided was fairly worthless and who had, time and time again, provided nothing but disappointment. Duo had crawled back into his bed, still naked, and curled up in the center of it. He had yanked up the covers and burrowed into the darkness and stared at it with open, bloodshot eyes until he had finally had to close them. The apartment was small - so small that Duo sometimes thought that the various holding cells he had been in over the years were larger - but even so, it took him almost five minutes to find the jeans he had kicked off hours before. They had made it into the kitchenette, and Duo knelt on the cold tile while he rooted around in the pockets until he found his phone and finally shut off the annoying alarm tone. He sighed as he looked at the time. _7:30_ Which meant that he was already running a few minutes behind. He needed to be on the 8:09 J train if he wanted to catch the D train and get to Preventers HQ by 9:00am. And while Duo didn't especially _want_ to ever set foot in Preventers HQ again, he had to. He started the coffee pot and then took a shower, putting his hair up into a bun that made him think about Merquise again. Duo didn't allow himself to act on his thoughts, didn't allow himself to feel anything but disgust about the whole damn thing as he roughly scrubbed his skin with a loofah. There were more than a few bruises on his body, courtesy of last night's tussle, and when Duo stepped out of the shower and wiped the fog from his bathroom mirror, he saw that he was sporting a swollen lower lip and the imprint of Merquise's hand around his throat. Duo swallowed hard, his fluttering pulse and hammering heart echoing. He fitted his hand over the marks, his fingers not quite able to reach the same extension that Merquise had managed. He stood there like that, reliving the moment again, the struggle to breathe, the pounding in his head, the burn of adrenaline in his body. By the time he finally came back to himself, it was 7:50. And, of course, his uniform was a mess. Duo vividly remembered the day he had come home and ripped it off, had tossed it in the back of his closet and not taken the other two shirts and trousers out of the laundry, and instead shoved those onto the floor of the closet as well. And now, seven weeks later, Duo was faced with his own bitterness and short-sightedness as he pulled all three uniforms out and laid them on the bed. The one he had worn the day of the hearing was missing two buttons from the shirt - sent skittering across the floor as Duo yanked it off. Another dress shirt had a coffee stain on it. The third, the one from _that_ day, still had the spatter of dried blood from Duo's broken nose. Duo grimaced in disgust. He should have at least had that one cleaned. He settled on the one with the coffee stain, since having a shirt gape open over his abdomen was unacceptable even to Duo. The uniform trousers were just as tight and itchy as he remembered them being, but at least two of them were blood and stain free, if wrinkled to all hell. Duo had asked the quartermaster for a larger size once, but the quartermaster had sneeringly informed Duo that he wore a 31" waist, had patronizingly offered to let him try the 33" waist and said _I told you so_ when they were too large and looked ridiculous even after he put a belt on. The quartermaster had then sighed and said that if Duo wanted to have a pair _custom_ made, then he could fill out these three forms and pay for it. Duo had given enough to the damn agency over the years, he wasn't about to pay for anything else. He stepped into the unpolished brown dress boots that completed the look, and then went back into the bathroom to adjust his tie. Two of the bruises were visible above the collar of the shirt, and Duo wondered if anyone would dare to comment on them to his face. His hair was, predictably, a mess. With only three minutes to make it to his station, Duo yanked a brush through it and pulled it back into a tail at the base of his skull. He had cut it short six years ago, the day before he left Brussels, getting it shaved so close to his scalp that the cold of winter had given him a headache. Since then, however, he had let it grow back, having it trimmed regularly, so that it was now just past his shoulders. He made it out of the door by 8:01 and to the station by 8:06. It wasn't until he boarded the train that he realized both of his hands were empty, that his coffee was still in the pot on the kitchen counter. He had the petty, bitter hope that the damn thing caught on fire. And then immediately felt guilty when he realized that his elderly neighbors would probably die in their apartment before the fire department could rescue them. Thoroughly reassured that he really _was_ a shitty human being, Duo tried to take up as little space as possible on the train, using one of the overhead handholds to balance himself while it travelled from Bushwick to Manhattan. He switched trains, merging into the press of bodies on the D train headed to Midtown. It never ceased to amaze him, the sheer number of people crowded into New York City. They were on Earth, where even after thousands of years, humans had yet to cultivate every mile. And yet New York City was more crowded than any colony Duo had ever been on. The crush of people made him claustrophobic in a way that small spaces never would, and Duo realized suddenly that he hadn't even _travelled_ to Manhattan in five weeks. Not since the last time he had met Wufei for dinner, since their last fight, since Duo's unofficial banishment to Brooklyn. He walked into the Preventers headquarters at 9:02, and the lobby was already full of people. Even though the building wasn't officially open to the public until 10:00am, the line of people standing in the 'visitor' security check line was full. Conversely, the employee checkpoint line was short and quick-moving - a simple scan of an ID card and a wave of a detection wand the only thing required of Preventers staff. Duo started towards that line before remembering that his ID had been confiscated on his last day seven weeks ago. He still had his badge - the shiny, worthless bifold that was good for intimidating local law enforcement and not much else - but that wouldn't get him through the employee security check. With an internal sigh of frustration, Duo walked to the back of the visitor line. Twenty-five minutes later, he was gestured forward by a bored security guard that Duo recognized from years of walking through the lobby. The guard frowned at Duo's uniform, and then looked at his face and blinked. "Sir? Are you- are you back?" Duo shrugged, and then held his arms out wide. "Dunno, Bobby. I was supposed to meet with the boss at 9:10." Duo cast a meaningful look at the clock high up on the lobby wall. The guard winced. "Why didn't you go through the other line?" he asked as he started to pat Duo down. "Well, there's the little matter of having misplaced my ID." "Oh. Oh, right." Bobby looked a little embarrassed, his cheeks pinking, and Duo had to bite back a smirk. The morbid part of his brain - the bigger part - wondered just how much the events of that day had been exaggerated over the seven weeks since. He finished patting Duo down and gestured him towards the side of the lobby, where an alcove of intake stations had been set up, all manned by Preventers receptionists. "Just go over there, fill out the visitor paperwork, and we'll get you upstairs as soon as possible." Duo clapped him on the shoulder, choosing to ignore the other man's flinch of panic. "Thanks, man." He walked over to the intake stations and parked himself in the back of yet another line. This one was just as slow moving - slower, actually - and Duo was finally beckoned to step forward at 10:03. A woman was behind the desk, fresh-faced and so young that Duo felt uncomfortable. As he usually did when meeting strangers, he found himself wondering where she had been during the wars, wondering how they had impacted her, who she had lost. If he had taken anyone from her. "Morning," he greeted her with a forced grin, projecting as much charm and ease as he could into the expression. She looked up at him, no doubt ready to dismiss an overly-friendly male's advances with a curt remark, but her eyes widened when she recognized him. "I, ah, good morning." She continued to stare at him. "So, I think I need a visitor's pass," he told her after a moment. "You do? Oh, um, well. You just need to fill out this form, and this one - and I need to see two forms of identification." Duo dug into the back pocket of his too-tight trousers for his wallet and passed over his government ID card, as well as his driver's license. The woman took the cards and gave him the two forms to fill out. Forms that were multiple pages. _For fuck's sake_. Duo filled them out as quickly as he could, his nearly illegible handwriting even worse as he tried to breeze through the dozens of questions about his past, his political sympathies and his reasons for being at Preventers. He handed her back the forms, noting her grimace, and took back the ID cards that she had scanned and filed. "For question seventeen on form Z2A, you answered that your political affiliation was 'anarcho-communist.' At least, I _think_ that's what you wrote?" Duo offered her a smile. "Yeah. Sorry for the piss-poor handwriting. Never had many lessons on penmanship growing up." She nodded idly. "Sir, your response falls into the category that usually requires me to flag your visitor application and call a supervisor." Duo stared at her. "You're kidding." "No, sir, I'm afraid not. Please wait here and let me get someone?" She waited until he gave her an irritable nod of acquiescence, and then walked away. It was 10:21 before she came back, a scowling older woman in her wake. She looked Duo over, appeared thoroughly unimpressed with what she saw, and stepped up to the younger woman's data console. "Name?" she demanded. "Uh, Duo Maxwell?" "Your papers say-" "David. David Maxwell," Duo corrected himself. It had been Quatre who had suggested he go with the more formal name. _If you're going to get a fake ID, you might as well get it with a name that no one raises an eyebrow over_. "Purpose for your visit?" "I had a 9:10 meeting with the station chief." The older woman looked over Duo's shoulder at the wall clock, looked back at him, and sniffed. "You appear to have missed it." "Yeah, I noticed." The younger woman, standing behind her supervisor, offered Duo a sympathetic smile. "Our records have you listed as banned from the premises," the older woman arched an eyebrow at him. "Yeah, well, like I said, I have a meeting upstairs with-" "I'll need to put in a call to his office." Duo rolled his eyes. "Fine. _Fine_. But can you at least tell him that I was here an _hour and a half ago_?" Her grim face suggested she would do no such thing, and Duo was left to wait once again as both women walked away. When they came back five minutes later, both looked a little subdued. The older woman passed a visitor badge over to him, and Duo slipped the nylon cord attached to it around his neck. "You are to report directly to the station chief's office," she informed him. "Thanks," Duo grumbled, but she was already walking away. "Good luck," the young receptionist said to him. Duo arched an eyebrow at her, and she flushed. "I just- I mean, it's good to meet you, sir. Thank you for everything." It still happened, sometimes, people thanking him for things he had done a lifetime ago, for violence and murder and war. It still took him by surprise, still left him reeling and slightly nauseous as he thought about all of the people who had died. He didn't deserve anyone's gratitude. Duo gave her an awkward nod and walked away, standing in yet _another_ line in front of the elevators. The group clustered around the elevators going to the top five floors was smaller, mostly filled with employees and a few people in dark suits who looked important. Duo earned more than a few pointed looks, and he saw heads tilt together and lips moving as people whispered to each other. He ignored them. He'd had plenty of practice doing that, over the years. Once on the elevator, everyone gave him space, clustering together at least a foot away from him, and Duo had to roll his eyes. So apparently there _had_ been gossip about him and the incident. He'd started off the day in a foul mood, and being a pariah in the fucking elevator did nothing to lift his spirits. When the elevator reached the ninth floor, Duo pushed his way out and stalked down the hall, the path ingrained in his memory from too many visits already. The receptionist was clearly on alert, his eyes neutral and his desk remarkably clean. Duo couldn't help but notice it was also empty of anything heavy or sharp. His eyes were drawn to the wall behind the receptionist, but the drywall had been patched and a new portrait, another of Commander Une in her Preventers' dress uniform, hung in the same place as the old one. "Heya, Steve. How ya been?" The receptionist didn't answer, but instead pressed a button on his phone. "Sir, Agent Maxwell is here." "Send him in," came the brusque response. Duo walked towards the door, smirking when Steve rolled his chair several inches further away from the path Duo took. "You're late." Duo rolled his eyes at the greeting. He closed the office door behind him - considering that the _last_ time he had been in the office there had been a shouting match - and shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. "Missed you too, buddy." Seated behind an imposingly large desk, Chang Wufei looked every inch the model of a lifelong government servant: wire-framed glasses, hair neatly pulled back, his uniform crisp and starched to within an inch of its life. If Duo hadn't _known_ him during the wars, he never would have thought that this man was the boy who had acted so impulsively, had been so driven by vengeance and self-loathing. Wufei's eyes raked over him, taking in everything, no doubt judging what he saw and, as usual, finding Duo lacking. Those dark eyes paused at Duo's throat, and Duo resisted the urge to adjust his collar. "How is Zechs?" Duo shrugged. "Still a self-absorbed narcissist who thinks he's God's gift to humanity." Duo sat down in the chair across from the desk, stretching his legs out and crossing them at the ankles. He couldn't help but notice the coffee mug on Wufei's desk, and he eyed it covetously. "So, unharmed?" Wufei sounded amused. Duo shrugged one shoulder. "He was a little banged up." Duo didn't go into any details, and certainly didn't feel the need to add that Merquise ended the night _more_ injured from _him_ than from the attempted assassination. Wufei drummed his fingers on his desk and pursed his lips in thought. "Any idea who might have been behind it?" "No. Forensics have anything yet?" "Some preliminary findings. You can go talk to them after-" "So, what, I'm back? Just like that?" Wufei arched an eyebrow at him. "I was _going_ to say, after you complete the psych evaluation and do your recertification testing." "A- a _psych_ eval? No fucking way in fucking _hell_ , Wufei." "It's the only way I can get you back in here. The lawyers-" "The _lawyers_? Oh for- and who the fuck said I _wanted_ back anyway? Getting paid to sit on my ass for the last seven weeks has been fucking bliss." "Then why did you answer the phone at one in the morning?" "Because it was _you,_ and it was the first time you'd called since-" "Then why did you agree to take care of Zechs?" Wufei abruptly changed tactics. Duo glared at him. "Why did you want _me_ to take care of him?" Duo turned the question on him. He hadn't been thinking too clearly when the call came, hadn't really cared about the reasons - he'd just reacted to Wufei's clipped tone, the scant information. _Attempted assassination_. _Zechs Merquise_. _Discretion_. Words that sent off red flags and sent adrenaline rushing through Duo's body. "I didn't," Wufei growled. "But I was overruled." "Huh." That hurt, more than Duo thought it would. Despite everything, he hadn't realized Wufei's confidence in Duo was that nonexistent. "Overruled?" "Brussels." Which meant Une, and probably Trowa. Ironic, considering that Une had wanted him brought up on charges and fired, and that Trowa had recommended he be shipped off to Mars to head up the fledgling Preventers station there. Wufei removed his glasses and rubbed his brow. Less than five minutes and Duo was already driving him crazy - that had to be a new record. "It's a delicate situation, and they _felt_ that given… your past experiences, Zechs would be more cooperative towards you than one of our other agents." Duo arched an eyebrow at that. If last night had been Merquise being _cooperative_ … "Well, he lied his ass off to me and to the cops." Wufei's eyes narrowed, but he nodded. "Une knew he was going to be difficult about this. We need this situation managed. If this becomes a multi-cycle story in the news, then it's going to give fodder to the bureaucrats who want Preventers resources curtailed, and it's going to have an impact on the economic negotiations between the Americas and Russia." "It's- why the hell would it affect those?" It was Wufei's turn to arch an eyebrow. "Zechs owns Labou-Marte Industries, and the Merquise Investment Group has holdings-" Wait, wait," Duo held up one hand. "Zechs _owns_ LMI?" Wufei nodded, and Duo let out a low whistle. It had been obvious, last night, that Merquise was loaded. But LMI was _the_ biggest name in biotech - not just on Earth, but in the entire Earthsphere. _That_ would have been handy information to have last night when he tried to question Merquise. "And the Merquise Investment Group - anything special about _that_?" "He's got a hand in the redevelopment projects in Russia - they've already financed most of the rebuilding of California after the war damage. There has also been a fair amount of speculation regarding bribes to politicians over the years, but nothing concrete." Duo nodded thoughtfully, revising his estimation of Merquise based on the new intel. The man _had_ to know something - had to at least _suspect_ someone. _Public figure, my ass_. "There is also, of course, the connection to Relena." "You think _she_ hired an assassin to kill him? I mean, I wouldn't blame her, but that doesn't seem like her style. Not to mention, she could just _ask_ , and I'd do-" "I _meant_ ," Wufei spoke over him, "that if this becomes a story, it impacts her as well." "Yeah, I knew that part already." Wufei stared at him for a moment, his eyes, as always, feeling as if they could see through Duo. "We need to know who was behind this, and we need to keep Zechs quiet." Duo lifted his eyebrows. "You know, the best way to do _that_ would be to just let me kill him." "More death?" Wufei whispered it, but the words had the same impact on Duo as if he had shouted them. Duo clenched his jaw, and he swallowed against the sudden, painful lump in his throat. "I only meant," Wufei continued after a moment, "to keep him happy and make him feel like we care." "You're sort of implying that we _don't_ actually care." "Preventers cares about this being dealt with quickly and quietly." Duo hooked a thumb towards himself. "And Une and Trowa thought I was the best for _quietly_?" "I think you've proven, time and time again, that _quietly_ is what you are best at." _That_ was going too far. Duo felt the words like a knife through his heart. Wufei just stared at him, and then nodded. "Good. Maybe I was wrong." " _What_?" "I don't think you're ready to come back - I don't think you'll _ever_ be ready to come back, but Trowa thinks you can handle this. Maybe I'm wrong and he's right." "Thanks for the vote of confidence, buddy." Wufei gave him a look. "Duo, I _care_ about-" Duo waved off the words. "I get it, Wufei." Duo drew in a deep breath. "You said something about forensics having preliminary findings?" Wufei nodded, still regarding Duo a little warily. "Jasmin is working on it." "Great. I'll go see her. After I get a cup of coffee." He started to get up from his chair. "Duo." Wufei's tone had Duo sighing and sitting back down. "You have to do the psych evaluation. We're still dealing with the lawsuit, and the fallout from-" " _Still_? Wufei, _fucking settle_. Give Anna the money, and let her-" "This is about more than a grieving widow and assuaging your guilt, Duo. This is about the entire agency. Munoz knew what the job was, and-" "Don't you _dare_ give me that bullshit, Wufei. Don't you _dare_ tell me that we all know what we signed up for, and that Anna is just supposed to be proud that she gets a fucking flag and a medal instead of-" "There was an inquiry. You did nothing wrong. Preventers did _nothing wrong_. You were doing your job; Munoz was doing her job. This agency cannot afford to simply hand out multi-million dollar compensation to the family of every agent who dies in the field." "Not every agent dies like she did, Wufei," Duo reminded him. They glared at each other, but Wufei refused to back down. Instead, he reached into his desk and pulled out a business card. He passed it over to Duo, who couldn't help but think bitterly that he should think about investing in a Rolodex. He looked at the name on the card. _Dr. Anthony Marisi_ _Registered Psychologist_ _Trauma and Recovery Specialist_ "What the fuck is this?" "Your psychologist. When you were put on administrative leave, you were advised to seek out counseling." "When _you_ put me on leave, I told _you_ that I wasn't going to sit on a couch and whine about my fucking feelings to a stranger." "You have an appointment with him at 12:15." Wufei looked at the clock on his desk. "It's already after eleven, and his office is across town. I will have Steven let his office know you might be running late." "There's no fucking way I'm going to-" "Get the evaluation, Duo." "Or what?" "Or you're fired." Wufei delivered the threat in a cold, empty voice. _Fired_. Une would love that. Hell, _everyone_ would love it. It would be such a damn relief, to have him gone. Even for Trowa and Wufei - no more of his messes to clean up. And Duo… Duo would have nothing left; no purpose, no compass, nothing. " _Fine."_ He pocketed the card and stood up. "Fine?" Wufei echoed. "You fucking win, Wufei, okay? I'll go get the eval." "Thank you." Wufei sounded sincere. Looked it too. That didn't change the fact that Duo wanted to punch him in the throat.

-o- TBC (Another Duo POV and then back to Zechs)


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: For Crown of Winterthorne, as a bribe for more of her AMAZING Westworld 2x3 fic.

A/N2: Title from the song by Stars

A/N3: Always, always thankful to Ro for beta reading and friendship. You are amazing.

A/N4: Okay, here's the deal. Writing is tough, especially for me. Over the years I've been lucky to have incredible people support me and tell me how much they enjoy my work, but I've also had those comments and reviews that just completely derail me and make me wonder why the hell I'm doing any of this or why I'm enough of an idiot to think anyone would even care.

So, no, this is not an update on any of the many WIPs I have going, and if you don't enjoy this fic then I am sorry.

But if you do, even a little, I cannot express how much it means to me to see that someone took the time to leave a review. Even if that review is "thanks" - it has a HUGE impact.

I cannot say thank you enough to the people who have left reviews for this. I'm seriously touched and aflutter and so, so grateful.

A/N5: POVs are going to switch back and forth between Duo and Zechs. Might be two chapters in each or just one, depends on the pacing.

A/N6: Going to be a few days between this chapter and the next. I'm very sick and am struggling to work, take care of the fam and like, live.

Warnings: angst, language, violence, sex, death, blood

Pairings: 6x2, others…

 _Midnight Coward_

Chapter Four

The waiting room was filled - not packed, like the train or the lobby at Preventers HQ, but almost every available seat was taken when Duo walked in at 12:10.

He'd taken a cab, something he hated doing, just to make sure he got here on time - just to prove he could.

With a sigh, he walked up to the receptionist.

"Duo Maxwell. I have an appointment with Dr. Marisi." He mumbled it, realizing in retrospect that if the woman asked him to repeat himself, it would be even worse.

But she just nodded and started to reach for a clipboard with papers attached to it.

"Of course. I just need you to fill these out, and a valid identification card and your insurance information."

More paperwork.

If Duo had known just how delightful today would prove, he would have gone another round with Merquise last night.

Duo passed over his ID and the insurance card that had been scanned and filed by nearly every hospital in the city.

He accepted the clipboard from the receptionist and surveyed the waiting room again.

The only available seat was beside a kid, some hollow-eyed teenager who was listlessly picking at the hem of her bulky sweater.

Duo swallowed hard and sat down beside her. She cringed away, and he resisted the urge to get up and just hold the clipboard against the wall.

Hell, he should have done that in the first place.

As quickly as he could, Duo filled out the forms, wondering what it said that he had to fill out more paperwork to see a psychologist than to be allowed into Preventers HQ.

When he stood up to take the forms up, the girl sighed in relief. Duo could hardly blame her.

He returned the clipboard to the receptionist, who gave him back his cards.

"Dr. Marisi's office is just down the hall - second door on the right," she said, and gestured towards the left.

Duo sighed.

At least he hadn't had to wait for an hour and a half.

Then again, if he _had_ he could have tried to use that as an excuse for why he needed to skip the appointment.

Reluctantly, Duo followed her directions and stopped in front of an open door bearing a placard with Marisi's name on it.

The room looked… cozy.

There wasn't even a desk - just a couch, two arm chairs, a coffee table and walls lined with books.

It reminded Duo just a bit of Merquise's library.

Sitting in one of the armchairs, a large, dark-skinned man sat cross-legged, using his knee as a makeshift support for a notebook that he was writing in.

Duo rapped his knuckles against the door, and the man looked up.

He had an open face, his skin smooth and dark and without any blemishes. Duo found himself staring for a moment, found himself envying this large, soft man with his flawless skin. _He_ had clearly never been in a firefight, never been in a fire, never had shrapnel embedded in his face. Probably never even been in a fight, judging by the perfect slope of his nose.

The man was so clearly a civilian, so clearly alien to Duo's entire world, that Duo immediately felt as if he was on uneven ground.

"Dr. Marisi?" His voice actually broke.

The man smiled slightly and stood up, setting the notebook down on the coffee table.

"Yes - you must be Mr. Maxwell?"

"Duo."

"Duo," Marisi agreed, and held out one hand, just as soft and smooth as his face.

Duo shook it quickly and then shoved his hands into his pockets.

"Please," Marisi gestured, taking in the couch and the armchairs, "sit. I was going to get a fresh cup of coffee before we begin - would you like one as well?"

"Yes," Duo practically moaned.

Marisi smiled again.

"Don't get too excited - it's only decaf."

Duo made a face.

"But, if I put enough sugar in it, we can at least pretend, eh?" Marisi chuckled, and Duo nodded cautiously.

Marisi walked out of the room, and Duo settled himself on the edge of one of the couch cushions, as close to the door as he could get.

A moment later, Marisi returned, bearing two steaming paper cups.

"Here we are." He handed one to Duo before turning and closing the door.

Duo took a sip, and then coughed.

It tasted like Marisi had dumped a pound of sugar into it.

"I might have gone a little overboard," Marisi shrugged.

Duo coughed again, and then forced himself to take another sip.

"It's fine," he lied.

Marisi arched an eyebrow at that, but he resumed his seat in the armchair.

"Well, Duo, what brings you into my office today?"

Duo stared at him.

"I was ordered to get a psych evaluation."

"Yes, yes, but _why_?"

Duo scowled.

"Because the Preventers want to cover their asses?"

Marisi didn't look amused.

"I have a file on you, with so much redacted information that the damn thing might as well be a Mad Libs game."

Duo smirked against his will at that, thinking of just how many blacked-out words, sentences, and hell, whole paragraphs, a file on him might contain.

"I'm not as concerned with what I can't know about you as I am with what I _do_ know about you."

Duo stiffened.

 _Here we go_.

He wondered where Marisi was from - wondered who he loved that Duo had killed.

"You were reassigned to the New York Preventers station after you were attacked by agents at the Brussels office."

Duo blinked in surprise. How the hell had _that_ not been redacted?

"And, more recently, you were placed on administrative leave following an altercation between you and six agents from the New York office."

"Seven," Duo corrected him.

Marisi looked at him steadily for a moment.

"Why would you _want_ to return to work at an agency where you have not once, not _twice_ , but three times - maybe even more - been attacked by fellow agents?"

"Well, they were probably justified."

"That's not what the disciplinary notes in your file suggest."

Duo shrugged.

"Duo, what do you enjoy about being a Preventers agent?"

" _Enjoy_?" Duo had to snort. "It's not… it's not a job you _enjoy_ doing. I mean - am I supposed to _enjoy_ killing people? Firing my gun? Discovering just how fucked-up humanity is? Remembering just how broken the bureaucracy is?"

"Perhaps you enjoy administering justice? Protecting innocent people?"

Duo sighed.

"Sure."

"Sure?"

"That's not really something I can _enjoy,_ is it? It's… it's my duty. It's what I'm supposed to do. I'd _enjoy_ it if I didn't have to do it."

Marisi's gaze was so steady, so unwavering and neutral.

"What about you? What do you _enjoy_ about trauma and recovery?"

"I enjoy helping people understand themselves better. I enjoy guiding people towards a healthier, more fulfilling relationship with themselves and the world."

Duo snorted. It sounded like the words on some pamphlet.

"There's a girl in the lobby, some kid who looks like her whole life is the most excruciating nightmare ever conceived. You _enjoy_ listening to her spill her guts to you?"

"I don't derive pleasure from the things that torment her. I derive pleasure from her progress in confronting them. Therapy isn't easy work. It reveals the worst in ourselves, in others, and it takes great strength to overcome and grow."

"Yeah, well, same with working for the Preventers. Anyone who _enjoys_ working there is…" Duo shook his head and grimaced, remembering the Alliance officers he had fought against as a child, the mercenaries, the rebels. All of the people who _enjoyed_ killing civilians.

"What do you enjoy?"

The question took Duo by surprise.

"What?"

"You don't enjoy working for the Preventers. What _do_ you enjoy? What things in your life give you pleasure?"

"Not decaf coffee," Duo muttered, before taking another sip from the paper cup.

"No, I don't know many people who _do_ genuinely enjoy it," Marisi agreed.

He sat, silent and waiting, for Duo to answer.

"Things. I enjoy stuff."

Duo, however, was having a hard time coming up with anything.

"What was the last thing you did that you enjoyed?"

It was disturbingly _easy_ to come up with an answer to that question.

But he was fairly certain that if he told Marisi that the last thing he had enjoyed doing was fighting with Zechs Merquise in his library, Duo would have no hope of passing the psych evaluation.

He tried to think back further, tried to remember the last thing he had done and _enjoyed_ doing - something that had provided more than mere satisfaction for completing a task.

"Look, what does this have to do with my work, anyway? Shouldn't you be asking questions about my mental state?"

"I am."

"I mean, as it relates to my job? Shouldn't you be asking more important questions?"

Marisi folded his hands together in his lap and leaned back in his chair. He seemed so comfortable and at ease, so unconcerned by Duo's growing agitation.

"What questions do you think I should be asking?"

"I don't know, something that isn't about me being _happy_? Something about whether or not I can deal with the stress or pressure or whatever at work? Something about anxiety or- I mean, isn't it your job to figure out if I can still do it?"

"Alright. When you think about returning to work at Preventers, do you feel anxious?"

"No," Duo answered honestly. It was the idea of _not_ returning that freaked him out.

"And do you think that you can make rational, logical decisions still while under physical and mental pressure?"

"Of course." He'd been able to do that for as long as he could remember. _That_ was the easy part - it was all the shit that came after, dealing with the fallout of what he _had_ to do, that Duo struggled with. That he ran from.

"And what was your last question? Something about still being able to-"

"Can I still do the job?"

Marisi nodded.

"And can you?"

"Yeah, I can still do the fucking job. I've always been able to do the job."

Marisi nodded again.

"And could you kill Kate Munoz again?"

The question froze Duo, brought his entire brain to a halt, and it felt like his heart skipped a beat.

"Could you kill Kate Munoz again? If you found yourself in that same situation, could you still do it?"

Duo's mouth felt as dry as the Martian planes. He rubbed his hands over his thighs, but he forced himself to keep eye contact with Marisi.

"How do you know about her? That wasn't redacted?"

"Oh, it was, the first time they sent over your file a month ago."

Duo frowned.

"That doesn't make any sense."

"I agree, which is why I called your superior and told him that if there was _any_ hope of working with you in therapy, I needed to know what, exactly, had led up to you being put on administrative leave. There was a bit of back and forth, but he finally sent over a _slightly_ less redacted file."

"But- I only just started back today. Why did they send my file over a month ago?"

"I believe there was some discussion about you coming back earlier." Marisi shrugged. "I'm not privy to why the decision was made to prolong your leave - I certainly wasn't consulted."

That was a lot for Duo to process. He wondered - hell, he had so many questions now. Who had wanted him back? Not Wufei. Une? That seemed unlikely. Trowa? Why would he even care? And who had argued for him to remain on leave?

"Those were your words, however, not mine."

Marisi's statement only confused Duo more.

"What?"

" _You_ said you killed Kate Munoz. But the documents from your hearing - the testimony of other agents at the scene and after - all state that you did _not_ kill her. Even some of the agents who attacked you after the hearing gave statements to that effect."

"I as good as killed her."

"Did you?"

Duo glared at him.

"You've got the file. You know what happened."

"I do. Well, at least I know what happened according to everyone else. Why don't you tell me _your_ version of events?"

"You mean the truth?" Duo snarled.

Marisi gave him a placating shrug.

"Yes. Please."

It wasn't hard, recalling that night seven weeks ago. The memory was always there, always just on the surface of Duo's conscience.

"There was a sting operation. We were targeting- that part's probably still redacted?"

Marisi nodded in agreement.

Duo wasn't surprised. He had been following the half-dozen trials in the newspapers, and there were still several to go. Even if Kate Munoz hadn't died on the op, the details of it would remain classified for a very, very long time.

"Right, well, we were targeting an international smuggling operation and this was our first real shot - a clean shot, a _good_ shot - of taking out the leadership. The intel was good, and everything was fucking perfect. The smugglers' security loops were like clockwork, and it was- god, it was setting up to be such a clean op."

"So what happened?"

"Kate and I were tasked with securing the south perimeter of the compound while the go team prepped to launch. It was…"

It had been _easy_. There had been no comms, but he and Kate had been grateful for the radio silence. They had passed the time trading stupid jokes about spacers. Kate had told Duo all of the things her son, six-month-old Henry David, had started trying to put into his mouth. It was shaping up to be a monumentally-dull night, where everyone else got to take down bad guys and he and Kate got to twiddle their thumbs.

"One of the smugglers came outside to smoke. It wasn't part of the routine and- and it took us by surprise. He saw Kate and she did what she was supposed to. She took him out quick and quiet. But he was armed and he stabbed her." Duo felt the familiar slick, bitter taste of bile in his throat as he remembered her wide eyes, her hands going to the tear in the fabric of her black tactical uniform.

Duo scrubbed at his eyes.

"The smugglers' security patrol was due to swing by in a minute, minute thirty tops. So I dumped the guy's body and I got Kate out of sight."

She had been in so much pain, clutching her abdomen, her face pale, tears streaking over her cheeks and her breath coming in stuttering, agonizing gasps.

"I couldn't radio for help. And I couldn't- we couldn't retreat from out position without risking the op being blown."

The seconds had ticked by, and when they heard the approaching voices of the smuggler patrol, Kate had whimpered in fear and then started to cry, in shock from blood loss, her sobs loud enough that Duo had panicked.

"The op- this thing had been in the works for _years_. We'd lost so many agents going after these fuckers, and this was _it_. I couldn't- I had to keep her quiet. She was in so much pain and she couldn't-" Duo paused and drew in a deep breath. "I kept her still, and I put my hand over her mouth so she wouldn't give away our position. And she bled out and died."

"I killed her," he continued. "Whatever shit anyone else said, I'm the reason she died."

"Hm."

Duo glared over at Marisi, at his soft face.

"What?"

"You think it was entirely your fault that Kate Munoz is dead?"

"That's what I just said," Duo ground out.

"What about the smuggler who stabbed her?"

"What?"

"Well, if he hadn't stabbed her, she would, presumably, not have died."

Duo continued to glare at him, but Marisi seemed completely unperturbed by a look that usually sent people scurrying in fear.

"And what about Agent Munoz? She has no culpability in her own death?"

"Are you saying it's her _fault_ that she died?" Duo had to grip the couch cushions to keep himself from getting up. "Kate was _good_. She was a great fucking agent. She was smart and quick and-"

"She made the choice to eliminate a threat. She weighed the risks and acted. She did her _job_. But somehow, none of what she was - smart, quick, good - none of that matters in the face of _your_ guilt. You've said how important this operation was - surely she realized that too. You made a choice to preserve the mission integrity - but she did as well."

Marisi didn't get it.

"She shouldn't have died. She- I was her _friend_. She _trusted_ me, and I-"

"Duo, if you had to die a painful death, wouldn't you want to have a trusted friend there beside you, holding you?"

"I wasn't fucking _holding_ her; I was trying to keep her from giving away our position. I wasn't her _friend_ when I did that. I didn't tell her she was going to be okay; I didn't comfort her or _hold_ her. I kept her still and quiet while she died."

"I see."

But Marisi's expression hadn't changed. There was no fear in his eyes, no revulsion. He still didn't get it.

"Then let me ask my question again; would you do it again?"

"Yes."

There was a flicker of something behind Marisi's eyes. Something Duo couldn't define, and something he was afraid to think too much about.

"I will have my office send over the evaluation to your superior at Preventers," Marisi said.

"Wh- what?"

The abruptness of Marisi's statement left him reeling.

So this was it. The end of his career.

"Hm. I'm clearing you for active duty, pending, of course, that you attend weekly sessions with me."

" _What_?"

Marisi stood up, and Duo reflexively did the same.

"There's something I want you to consider, before our next meeting."

Duo was sure he would be considering a _lot_ of things before their next meeting - not the least of which was how to never have it.

Still, he remained silent and arched an eyebrow.

"How much longer do you intend to work for the Preventers?"

"What?" Duo was getting irritated with _himself_ for repeating the word so much.

"Five years? Ten? Twenty? Fifty?"

 _Fifty years_.

The very thought left Duo feeling sick. Fifty years of this?

"Duo, how many more times will you be able to kill Kate Munoz over the next fifty years?"

Marisi didn't wait for a response, but walked over to the door and opened it. He gestured for Duo to leave.

"I will have my assistant call tomorrow to set up our next appointment."

Duo left the office in a haze, so wrapped up in that question, in that _nightmare,_ that he didn't even remember to get coffee before he went back to Preventers HQ.

He went through the staff line, retrieving his visitor badge from his back pocket and flashing it before putting it back in his pocket and merging into the line for the elevator.

"He's in a meeting," Steve said as soon as Duo walked into the room.

Duo gave him a steady look, and Steve reached over to the intercom.

"Sir, Agent Maxwell is back."

"I'll be right out."

A moment later, the door to Wufei's office opened.

But it wasn't Wufei who stepped out, it was Han Reynolds.

Duo stared at him, and Reynolds stared right back.

He was a former Alliance officer, one of the handful of decent ones Duo had ever met. A good guy, tall and broad, middle age just starting to round the hard line of his jaw.

Wufei stepped forward.

"Is there going to be a problem?"

A muscle in Reynold's cheek jumped.

"I've already lodged a formal complaint against him, and you've already dismissed it."

"There was a _hearing_ ," Wufei said, sounding as if he had lost patience with humanity ten years ago.

"With all due respect, sir, none of my team want anything to do with him. If he's assigned a partner from the third floor, I can't guarantee that anyone will trust him."

"Pretty sure you're going to do your damndest to do the opposite," Duo muttered.

Reynolds took a step forward, and Duo matched it.

"Stand _down_ ," Wufei barked.

Reynolds flinched at the tone. Despite his youth, Wufei was respected - revered and feared - by the New York office. Duo had never heard him use that tone on anyone besides himself, and he imagined Reynolds was about ready to piss himself.

He fought to kill the smirk that thought brought to his lips. Not quickly enough, though.

Reynolds saw it, and his eyes narrowed.

"Duo isn't going to be working with a partner," Wufei said, his voice still chilly.

"I'm not?"

"You don't need one for your current assignment."

"And none of us need to bury another good agent," Reynolds growled.

"Hey Han, I'm about to go get my field recertification taken care of - why don't you grab six of your buddies and meet me in the gym so I can get a refresher on hand-to-hand? Then again, maybe you should bring a few more. Seven of you wasn't really enough, last time, was it?"

Wufei stepped between them, shoving Duo away with one hand, hard enough that he stumbled and nearly lost his balance.

"Agent Reynolds, we're done here."

Reynolds glared at Duo as he walked away, Duo glaring right back.

When he was finally out of sight, Duo turned the glare on Wufei.

"Well?"

Wufei arched an eyebrow.

"Well, what?"

"I did your damn psych eval. Where do I go for recertification?"

Wufei sighed.

"You don't have to do this today."

"I thought you wanted the Zechs thing handled quickly?"

Wufei pursed his lips.

"I'm sure the therapy session wasn't… pleasant. You might want some time to organize your thoughts?"

It had been the opposite of pleasant, and Duo was pretty sure that _more_ time to organize his thoughts was only going to reinforce that.

 _How many more times will you be able to kill Kate Munoz over the next fifty years?_

"I want this over with. What do I need to be recertified for?"

"Just your weapon. You can get the PT done next week." Wufei's gaze flicked down to Duo's throat. "And I'll give you a temporary ID. We can do a new one, with a new photo, next week too."

"Great," Duo growled. "So I'm headed to the basement? Charlie expecting me?"

Wufei turned and nodded at Steve, who picked up his phone.

"She'll be notified that we're coming."

" _We_? For the love of fuck, Wufei, you don't need to supervise me on a shooting range."

But Wufei shadowed him to the elevator, dark gaze implacable.

When they stepped out onto the third sub-level, the 'basement' as most agents called it, Duo drew in a deep breath. This smell was so very familiar to him.

Not as raw or as rich as a real battlefield, but it carried something of it, and Duo felt more grounded than he had in weeks. Certainly all day.

An olive-skinned woman with cropped hair was waiting for them at the shooting range.

"Charlie," Duo greeted her.

She offered him a small, sad little smile.

She and Kate had been close. She and _Duo_ had been close.

"Duo, it's…" she trailed off, clearly struggling with what to say.

"He needs to get recertified," Wufei said after the silence had grown awkward.

"Right, of course. I'll get everything set up."

The first part was cake, even with Wufei breathing over his shoulder. Weapons identification, assembly and disassembly - Duo literally could have done it in his sleep. It was, in fact, one of those things he played over and over in his mind to drown out all of his memories so he _could_ sleep.

Then it was on to the firing range. Duo adjusted his safety glasses and hearing protection before picking up the standard service weapon, a slim Heckler & Koch. Duo preferred the FN Five SeveN, and he knew Wufei had a stash of Berettas.

He remembered the first day he had met Kate. It had been down here, at the range.

There had been a bet, between her and Reynolds. She had still been a rookie, had just had her training officer ask for her to be reassigned because she was too much of a pain in his ass, and Reynolds had made some comment on her form, something that Duo had thought was genuinely meant to instruct, but Kate had taken as a personal challenge. She'd capped five targets in a row to Reynolds' four, taking her time counting out the ten creds that Reynolds passed over and smirking the whole time. She'd immediately lost them to Duo, who had stepped up and suggested she should stop being smug about taking lunch money from Alliance scrubs. He had put in a request to become her new TO after that, and she had been partnered with him ever since.

Until her death.

 _How many more times will you be able to kill Kate Munoz over the next fifty years?_

Duo sighted along the barrel of the H&K and put the entire clip into the chest of the target.

He did it again two more times, and then put down the gun and arched an eyebrow at Wufei and Charlie.

"We good?"

Charlie nodded slowly, but Wufei had that troubled look on his face, that expression of doubt that Duo hated having directed at him.

"Then I need that temp ID so I can go talk to Jasmin in forensics."

-o-

TBC - back to Zechs POV next chapter


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: For Crown of Winterthorne, as a bribe for more of her AMAZING Westworld 2x3 fic.

A/N2: Title from the song by Stars

A/N3: Always, always thankful to Ro for beta reading and friendship. You are amazing.

A/N4: Okay, here's the deal. Writing is tough, especially for me. Over the years I've been lucky to have incredible people support me and tell me how much they enjoy my work, but I've also had those comments and reviews that just completely derail me and make me wonder why the hell I'm doing any of this or why I'm enough of an idiot to think anyone would even care.

So, no, this is not an update on any of the many WIPs I have going, and if you don't enjoy this fic then I am sorry.

But if you do, even a little, I cannot express how much it means to me to see that someone took the time to leave a review. Even if that review is "thanks" - it has a HUGE impact.

A/N5: POVs are going to switch back and forth between Duo and Zechs. Might be two chapters in each or just one, depends on the pacing.

Warnings: angst, language, violence, sex, death, blood

Pairings: 6x2, others…

 _Midnight Coward_

Chapter Five

Zechs stared at his closet, irritated with both it and himself.

It was meticulously organized - _had_ been reorganized just last week when Zechs had found himself in possession of a furious energy and with no other outlet - but even so, Zechs stared at the contents and had _no idea what to wear_.

There, were, perhaps, too many options.

He could still remember his father, dressing for grand state dinners, tense parliament meetings, mundane family outings. Zechs's earliest memories were of sitting in his father's dressing room, organizing the movements of toy soldiers and watching his father's valet dress him.

 _Clothes make the man_ , Marticus would say, winking at Zechs's reflection in the mirror. _Always remember that you aren't just dressing yourself - you are dressing the leader of men._

The words had lodged deep inside of Zechs, alongside his memories of heat and the smell of burning tapestries.

He had been obsessive about his uniforms while in the military, repairing any rends or missing buttons himself, polishing his boots until they were brighter than a still lake on a summer's day. After the wars, during his exile on Mars, perhaps one of the most depressing things had been the drab clothing - a gray so pitiful it was almost khaki. His shirts and trousers had felt threadbare the day they had been assigned, his jumpsuit and emergency EVA suit the only clean, pressed, _fresh_ articles of clothing he was allowed. Even the undergarments were regulated - gray tanks and gray briefs and gray socks and _so much gray_.

Zechs had grown a beard, simply because he had _nothing else to do_ , and because it was some sort of relief from all of the gray.

The first event he had attended upon his return to Earth had been his sister's marriage. He had been invited, if not exactly encouraged to attend. A friend of a friend of Une's had managed to scrounge up something suitable for him to wear, the old-fashioned white breeches and brocade frock coats of the vanquished elite. Zechs had loathed every moment in the uniform, had seen a reflection of himself in a mirror and realized just how much he had started to look like Marticus. He had returned to his hotel room that night and shaved off the beard, vowing never to grow it out again, and, despite the uniform being a loan, he had burned it in the shower.

Since then, Zechs had confined himself to civilian attire, had fallen in _love_ with the trappings of a wealthy, ordinary businessman. He knew he wasn't fooling anyone - knew that anyone who bothered to spare him a second glance or spend a few moments searching databases for his face would know who he was. What he was.

But, at the very least, three piece suits, cashmere sweaters and linen trousers kept Zechs from remembering his past in excruciatingly vivid details. He could avoid reliving it, at least, when he was awake.

Of course, there were always occasions when he _couldn't_ avoid it - when he couldn't pretend that he was just a wildly successful entrepreneur in the post-war Earthsphere, dressing lavishly, living well and fucking beautiful boys as often as he pleased.

Reality tended to crash into the fantasy Zechs had built, brutal and demanding, and today was certainly one of those occasions.

He had a closet any dandy would envy.

But he still had no idea what to wear to the wake of the boy who had died for him.

Allison had managed to track down Nick's family, and Zechs was sure that the funeral home would be filled with the beautiful boys who had worked with Nick at Adonis, boys who had on occasion warmed Zechs's bed. Boys who were still alive.

Zechs's gut churned at the thought that some other patron of Nick's might also be in attendance, and he instantly hated himself even more.

His self-loathing, however, did nothing to motivate Zechs into finally deciding on a suit to wear.

He had four black suits - one three piece, one double-breasted, one slim cut and the last was actually a very dark gray suit with cross-threads of black woven intermittently into the wool. It was, by far, his favorite suit.

He had worn it once, with Nick. The shorter man had stood on his toes, running his fingers over the velvet band on the edge of the collar, straining to press a kiss to Zechs's lips.

Zechs glared at the suit. He wasn't sure he would be able to wear it again without associating the suit with Nick.

It was pathetically maudlin, and Zechs already had more than enough nightmares to occupy his mind. He did not need to torture himself with this too.

He pulled the suit out and set it aside. He would tell Petra to have it removed.

Sighing, Zechs stared at the other black suits.

It felt wrong, felt melodramatic and a little gauche, to wear a black suit. Nick wasn't his family, wasn't even someone Zechs knew that well. He had seen the boy maybe five times, over the last three months, and while he had enjoyed Nick immensely, it had been a brief, superficial relationship based solely on Zechs's ability to pay Nick.

Of course, the reality of it was that Nick had been _good_. Not just in bed, but a good person - funny, generous, more than a little naive, desperate for praise. He had been the kind of person that should never, ever have died trying to save Zechs's life.

Alison had made all of the arrangements, had contacted what little family Nick had - a younger brother, both orphaned by the war - and Zechs still wasn't sure it was even _right_ that he attend.

Zechs was pulled from his spiral of self-loathing by the sound of an incoming call.

With a sigh, he stood up, walked out of the closet, and found his mobile phone.

 _Petra_.

She had been his personal assistant for nearly three years, and she likely knew him more intimately than anyone else alive, Noin being the only exception.

Zechs thumbed the phone on.

"Yes?"

"Sir, I'm sorry to bother you so early. I know today is a… difficult day. But there has been a development, and I wanted to make you aware of it."

Quiet, efficient Petra, who had only the slightest of accents to betray her L2 origins, sounded frustrated.

Zechs could count on one hand the number of times that Petra had been anything less than distressingly unflappable.

"Is this about the KV acquisition?" Zechs had been trying to move the deal into the final stages for months now, but the KV board was still dragging their feet. The deal would make the MIG shareholders an enormous sum of money, while still allowing a few key players from KV to remain in control of their company. Everyone stood to make money, and KV would be left largely intact. It was, as far as Zechs could see, an easy proposition to say yes to. And yet, it had taken nine months to even get KV to agree to draw up potential acquisition documents.

"No, sir. Well, not directly."

Petra was also always direct - occasionally shockingly so - and Zechs couldn't recall her ever stumbling over words or prevaricating.

"Well?" Zechs prompted her when she didn't immediately clarify.

"Sir, the _Herald_ and the _Daily News_ are both running front page features on you."

"They've done it before." The two news outlets tended to focus on stories more salacious than substantial.

"Yes, sir, but the _News_ is… The headline is "Losing a Dangerous Game: The Murder of Zechs Merquise's Favorite Whore."

Zechs felt a cold fury settle deep in the pit of his stomach, felt a blizzard of rage swirl through his veins, and it was an effort to keep his voice steady when he spoke.

"And what creative invention is the _Herald_ running?"

Petra cleared her throat.

"The Lightning Count's Body Count Continues to Grow After the War. It's not clever. Neither of them are."

"Would that have made them any less offensive?" Zechs growled.

"Of course. If I have to read this garbage, the least they could have done was come up with decent headlines. I've already spoken to the editors at both papers and assured them that they _will_ be hearing from your lawyer, and I've encouraged them to print retractions in the afternoon updates. But-"

"But this could sink the KV deal," Zechs sighed. "Among other things."

"Yes, sir. This morning I had a notification from their board that negotiations would be put on hold."

Zechs sighed again and rubbed his temples.

 _So much_ , he thought bitterly, _for Maxwell cleaning up his mess_.

It looked like, as usual, Zechs would have to take care of things himself.

"Get Allison on this immediately. And set up a call with the chair of KV. I-"

"Sir, speaking with KV can wait until tomorrow. You have enough to deal with today that-"

"No," Zechs cut her off. "It cannot wait. Set up the call."

Petra was silent for a moment, and Zechs could easily visualize her expression: cheeks sucked in, lips pursed and eyes narrowed.

"Very well. The wake begins in an hour. Will you-"

"Have my car ready to leave in thirty minutes."

"Yes, sir."

She ended the call, and Zechs went back to glaring at his closet.

Irritated with himself, with the press, with _Maxwell_ and with the KV board, Zechs walked past the section of black suits and instead chose the darkest navy suit he owned. It was a three piece suit, the blue so dark that in poor lighting it did look black, but even so, it felt more appropriate than a black suit.

And it was a choice.

He picked out a dress shirt, tie and cufflinks, and set everything out before finishing his toilette - brushing through his hair, shaving, filing his nails after he felt his thumb snag on the hand towel he used to pat his face dry.

Petra still hadn't called back by the time Zechs had finished dressing.

It wasn't until he was in the back of his car, until the driver had pulled into traffic and Zechs had settled against the leather seat, that his phone rang again.

It was not Petra.

With a sigh, Zechs stared at the incoming caller's name.

 _Spawn of Satan_.

He had given her that label in a fit of pique. He had only been back on earth for two weeks, had - he thought - not made of a spectacle of himself at Relena's wedding, had been distantly polite to all of the former OZ and Alliance and Barton connected nobles and former military staff that had reached out to him and dutifully reported anyone suspicious to Une. He had been boring and bored, and he had accepted the invitation to join an old comrade on his yacht for a two week Mediterranean cruise, and of course the paparazzi had gotten their hands on compromising photographs and of _course_ the photos revealed all sorts of things about Zechs to the public that he would rather have kept private. And that's when the calls had begun. The haranguing. The never-ceasing accusations.

Zechs did not want to deal with her, not today.

But, considering that she was likely calling because of the newspaper headlines, Zechs knew that if he didn't answer she would simply keep calling or, worse, take it upon herself to fly over and dress him down in person.

So, with a sigh, he answered the call.

"Good morning, Dorothy. How is the weather in Brussels today?"

"It was a glorious morning, thank you for asking. In fact, it was the most perfect spring morning we could have hoped for considering that the press conference we had planned for this morning was to announce your sister's candidacy for Foreign Minister."

Zechs hadn't known that Relena was interested in advancing her career that quickly. She had been on the back benches for years now, working as an assistant minister for the half dozen Foreign Ministers that had come and gone since the war, learning the craft and refusing to use either her birth or adoptive connections to gain any undue advantages.

"I'm sure she was perfectly photogenic."

Especially with Dorothy there to manage not only Relena, the press, but, Zechs was confident, the weather as well. Dorothy would have likely engaged in minor chemical warfare if it meant ensuring a sunny day for Relena to announce her candidacy.

"Oh yes." Dorothy's voice was cold, _very_ cold. "My particular favorite expression of hers this morning occurred when a reporter asked if her brother's indiscretions would have a negative impact on the legislative agenda she is attempting to push through the senate right now. I'm sure you are familiar with it, Zechs; she's only been trying to get these laws passed for three years now. Her entire _platform_ , after all, is built on securing a safe future for children, and passing the legislative reforms that would make intercolonial child trafficking a category one offense in the ESUN charter is, of course, in _no way damaged by headlines of your whore being murdered_."

It was one thing - one very bad, fury-inducing thing - to have the newspapers use Nick for their tawdry attempts to increase sales. It was entirely another, and entirely intolerable, to have Dorothy use him as a tool to further castigate Zechs for his mere existence.

"He wasn't a child," Zechs ground out. "He was twenty-one and, in case you were too busy being the mastermind behind some cotillion appearance for Relena, prostitution was legalized in the post-war ESUN charter nine years ago. While I admire Relena's dedication to preserving the innocence of children - so much so, in fact, that I have been the single biggest contributor to her advocacy groups for five years - I fail to see how that has any relationship to me."

Dorothy barely let him finish speaking before she was off again.

" _You fail to see how -_ it has _everything_ to do with you! Relena cannot possibly campaign on anti-corruption, on peace and prosperity and _protection_ for the youth of the Earthsphere while her own brother is cavorting with prostitutes who are being _murdered_ while he fucks them!"

Zechs had always had a short temper, had always admired Treize's ability to seemingly collect his fury into a deep internal well and unleash it when his targets were unsuspecting; had always been baffled by Noin's ability to let insults roll off her shoulders and focus instead on the things that mattered most to her. Mars had, to an extent, cooled Zechs's temper and taught him the importance of putting his emotions aside.

Dorothy, however, had _always_ brought out the worst in Zechs. She made him feel like a twelve-year-old boy fighting for a place in the most elite military school on Earth all over again, made him feel the suffocating rage, the desperation of revenge and the irritation of youth.

He was nearly thirty. It should not be so easy for this woman to reduce him to such a state.

He tried, he _tried_ to remain silent and simply let her words slide through his mind without having an impact.

But she persisted.

"Do you know how long it took me to find out his name? To find out that he has a record dating back to the _war_ for solicitation. He was a _child,_ and you took advantage of him when-"

"I assure you," Zechs finally broke in, his voice savage, "that I have _never_ had a sexual relationship with a child. If you ever accuse me of pederasty again, you had best have insurmountable evidence or I will have my legal staff come at you with everything in my power. You may feel entitled to use me as your personal target for honing your poisoned tongue, but there is only so far I will allow the personal assistant of my sister go before I take action. Are we clear?"

She had heard that tone before, during their time together in White Fang. She knew it was the tone that precluded violence and death. And she knew what happened to anyone who dared to argue with him.

But Dorothy, as ever, was either unwilling or unable to consider self-preservation over her righteousness.

"I am her chief of staff. And if you think I can be intimidated by the threats of a washed-up coward who-"

"Tell me, what does Relena think of your relationship to the woman who murdered her father? I admit, I was surprised that she would be so sanguine over having her most trusted _assistant_ share the bed of the woman who single-handedly demolished her childhood. Does she really find it so easy to trust you? She doesn't worry about you reporting back to Une?"

The line was silent.

"That is only the smallest, _easiest_ weapon I have to use against you, Dorothy." Zechs could feel his pulse settling again, could feel his rage becoming manageable, as he gained the upper hand over her. "Do not tempt me to recall all of your actions during the last decade and contemplate how they could impact my sister's life. Or her career."

"You heartless bastard. You would really ruin her just to get even with me?"

He wouldn't. Of course he wouldn't. And the fact that Dorothy didn't understand that, didn't see that, meant that she still believed him to be the self-centered monster of his youth. It was frustrating, but then again, in this situation, it was useful.

"Oh, I wouldn't stop at getting even. I've never liked to do things halfway."

Another silence, and Zechs could imagine Dorothy mentally cataloging all of her possible options.

"She can change things, Zechs. People believe in her - they trust her. If she gains power, if she gains a following, she can make sure humanity never endures the tragedies of the past again. You just need to stay out of her way."

Then again, Dorothy _had_ always been frighteningly intelligent and perceptive.

Zechs swallowed hard at the well-aimed barb.

"Surely even you want that for her? For humanity?"

And now it was Zechs's turn to be silent.

"Une tells me that she has an agent assigned to look into things at the New York office. Please, Zechs, just let them take care of this and try to stay out of trouble long enough to let Relena get elected."

Dorothy didn't wait for him to acquiesce - he wouldn't have, not verbally, and they both knew that.

Instead, she ended the call, and Zechs was left staring at the phone, his stomach sour and his lips twisted into a grimace.

It was a very good thing that Petra still hadn't called by the time his car arrived at the funeral home - and while part of Zechs suspected Petra was intentionally not letting him speak to KV until later in the day (if she bothered to set up the call at all), Zechs knew better than to direct his ire at her.

Petra didn't fight back. Whenever Zechs turned his frustration or anger on her, she simply accepted whatever terrible things he said with an emotionless face and then went about her work as if nothing had ever happened. It had the effect of making Zechs feel like a churl, of instantly regretting any harsh words he delivered to her, and he had made an effort to stop.

When Zechs stepped out of the car, he was greeted with a gust of chilly wind that ruffled his hair and stung his cheeks. It was bracing, and Zechs tried to focus on that physical sensation instead of his riot of emotions.

He tried very, very hard to set aside his anger with Dorothy, with the newspapers, with Maxwell and the Preventers, with the _world,_ and focus instead on the fact that he was here to pay his respects to a good, innocent boy who had been taken from the world because of his relationship to Zechs.

Despair and self-loathing were emotions he could manage so much easier than the others, after such long familiarity with them, and Zechs settled into them and walked inside the funeral home.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: For Crown of Winterthorne, as a bribe for more of her AMAZING Westworld 2x3 fic.

A/N2: Title from the song by Stars

A/N3: Always, always thankful to Ro for beta reading and friendship. You are amazing.

A/N4: Okay, here's the deal. Writing is tough, especially for me. Over the years I've been lucky to have incredible people support me and tell me how much they enjoy my work, but I've also had those comments and reviews that just completely derail me and make me wonder why the hell I'm doing any of this or why I'm enough of an idiot to think anyone would even care.

So, no, this is not an update on any of the many WIPs I have going, and if you don't enjoy this fic then I am sorry.

But if you do, even a little, I cannot express how much it means to me to see that someone took the time to leave a review. Even if that review is "thanks" - it has a HUGE impact.

ALSO: THANK YOU SO SO SO SO SO MUCH to everyone who has left a review for this on and AO3. I seriously… I LOVE you all and am so so so grateful. I know I don't always respond, but I am just… I'm so very very happy every time I see one and I feel SO good about this story and I'm so happy people like it and just… thank you. Thank you.

A/N5: POVs are going to switch back and forth between Duo and Zechs. Might be two chapters in each or just one, depends on the pacing.

A/N6: Also for anyone who has read the _Captive Prince_ trilogy, little moment in this chapter for you. And for those of you who have had to listen to me whine about a certain someone dying, it shouldn't surprise you at ALL that I did this.

A/N7: There are probably canon details on Zechs' military training. I made up my own.

Warnings: angst, language, violence, sex, death, blood

Pairings: 6x2, others…

 _Midnight Coward_

Chapter Six

Despite his rather infamous military career and his entire past, Zechs had never attended a wake before.

After the assassination of his mother and father, Zechs and Relena had both been whisked away by loyalist forces, so that even if there _had_ been a state funeral - and there certainly had not been - Zechs would not have been in attendance.

He had, of course, walked among the rows of coffins of fallen soldiers under his command, had been in the med bay holding the hand of more than a few of those soldiers as they passed from this life to the next, but he had never been to the ceremony, the _event_ of mingling around a casket and reminiscing.

Zechs would have felt out of place even if he _had_ known more than a handful of the people in attendance.

As he stepped out of his car and onto the street, he was surprised and relieved that there wasn't a flood of reporters.

He wondered if there was a chance that the lewd articles hadn't mentioned Nick's name, or, more likely, Allison had located a respectable but relatively unknown funeral home.

He hoped the newspapers hadn't managed to get the boy's name. Then again, the fact that the newspapers had _any_ information made Zechs think that either the police or the Preventers had leaked the details.

Zechs thought back to the other night, to the way that Maxwell had sneered in disgust at Zechs's very existence. He wondered if the other man hated him enough to go against the orders of his superiors.

His bodyguard for the day, a former infantryman during the war, moved to open the door to the funeral home, but Zechs stayed him with a wave of his hand.

"Wait outside," he instructed. If someone wanted to assassinate him at a _wake_ , in full view of the other mourners, then the presence of one bodyguard would do little to dissuade such a man.

The funeral director was a portly man wearing an ill-fitting suit, but he wasn't obnoxiously obsequious as he stepped out to greet Zechs, and that was a small favor that he was immensely grateful for. Today, of all days, was not a day when he could deal with sycophants.

The funeral home interior looked a little old, a little worn, but was clearly well-cared for. The funeral director led Zechs down an exceedingly long hall and towards an open doorway.

The room beyond the doorway was large enough to hold perhaps fifty people, though, at present, there were barely two dozen.

On one side of the room, elevated on a draped platform and flanked by elaborate stands of white flowers, was a coffin. An open coffin.

Zechs felt a chill run down his spine and solidify in his gut.

 _Why? Why was the casket open?_

The thought of seeing Nick again, of his pale face and lifeless body, his colorless lips and tear-streaked face - it made Zechs nauseous.

Nausea turned to anger, however, when Zechs saw the lean form of Duo Maxwell clad in a Preventers uniform. He was separate from the rest of the mourners, his arms folded over his chest and his wide lips pinched into a grimace, and his unforgiving eyes skewered Zechs.

Zechs glared right back at him.

 _Why the hell was he here?_

Before Zechs could say or do anything about the unwanted Preventers agent, he was swept up in a cloud of gardenia perfume and a fleshy embrace.

Zechs could count on one hand the number of people who had _ever_ presumed to touch him outside of a bedroom. His parents, long dead and the memory as painful as a battle wound; Noin, who held onto him no matter how cold he was to her; Treize, just twice, the feel of him seared into Zechs's mind and skin for eternity; and Eszter.

Eszter Sipos, the formidable Madame who ran the Adonis, and who had been daring and savvy enough to introduce herself to Zechs not long after he emigrated to New York and had convinced him to invest in her enterprising brothel franchise.

Eszter, who had lost two brothers and a son during the wars and now made a _very_ comfortable existence selling the flesh of young men.

Eszter, who either didn't care that Zechs was uncomfortable with human contact or simply wanted to punish him for his past sins by forcing it upon him.

"It was good of you to take care of our dear boy," she rasped against the collar of his suit.

Zechs stiffened in her arms, already uneasy but now cut to the quick.

 _Take care of him_?

Zechs had gotten the boy killed.

He had done anything _but_ take care of him.

"It-"

Zechs had to pause, had to clear his throat and pry Eszter off of him.

"It was the least I could do," he managed after a deep breath.

She nodded, allowing him to straighten his suit and draw in a deep breath before speaking again.

"The police-"

Zechs looked around, but they were a ways from any of the other guests, and Eszter had perfected speaking in an undertone.

"-have requested our surveillance tapes. What would you like us to do?"

Zechs frowned, remembering Mark saying that he had looked over them already, that night at the police station. It was likely that Alison had had the forethought to send Mark to Adonis to secure the tapes before they could be confiscated by the police.

"You still have a copy?" he asked, lips barely moving as he spoke softly. He let his eyes roam over the guests, determinedly ignoring the dark slant of Maxwell's body against the wall in one corner of the room.

"The duplicate. Your attorney has the original."

Zechs frowned. It still made him uncomfortable to know that there was video surveillance in the brothel rooms, but Eszter had pointed out to him early on in their joint endeavor that in addition to being for the protection of both her boys and their clients, such footage was awfully useful for Zechs when he needed to drop hints or spread rumors about powerful competitors or potential business partners. The fact that Eszter held the same power over _him_ was immensely disconcerting and always had been.

"I thought our standard policy was to scrub all surveillance footage every six hours," he replied, and she nodded.

"Of course it is. Unfortunate that the police didn't ask for the tapes sooner - they have unfortunately been deleted," she agreed, unflappable.

"Has anyone else been snooping around?" Zechs asked her, his mind and gaze settling on Maxwell again. He wondered what the other mourners thought about the presence of a Preventers agent in their midst.

Zechs could see a few of the boys - their somber suits and dour faces a stark contrast to their ordinary countenances - looking over at Maxwell and frowning.

"Not yet." Eszter had followed his gaze. "If they do?"

" _When_ they do," Zechs predicted, "our standard policy remains in place." He paused and drew in a deep breath. He hadn't wanted to do this here, but, perhaps, it was best to simply get it over with.

"I assume you dealt with Peter?"

Eszter's lips compressed into a fierce grimace, but she nodded.

"He owed a great deal of money to the _Vor_. His girlfriend told Abdul everything."

Zechs nodded. He had known Abdul for more than a decade, had met the former Alliance officer during the war and had had a reunion of sorts with him on Mars, where Abdul had been summarily sent after the war when he had been found guilty of war crimes. Zechs had brought him back to Earth years later, had employed him as a bodyguard, and had been baffled and amused to see Eszter and Abdul go from despising each other to cohabiting. The man was ruthless and loyal, to both Eszter and Zechs, and Zechs had no doubt that Abdul's interrogation of Peter's girlfriend had been very thorough.

Peter, who had _not_ been loyal but had apparently been desperate, had been employed by Eszter as one of the Adonis security personnel for almost two years. He had been on duty during the attempted assassination. Had, no doubt, been the one to grant Horvat entry to the brothel in the first place.

The knowledge that Peter was entangled with the local _Vory v zakone_ was unwelcome, but not entirely surprising.

Zechs sighed.

Having the local Russian mafia send assassins his way was going to complicate his plans immensely. The question, of course, was how _local_ the grudge was, or if there was some tie back to Russia proper.

A question that he would have to deal with soon, but not now.

Zechs spotted a boy standing near the casket, resolutely glaring at the ceiling. His features were pinched, the skin around his eyes puffy and red, but there was a resemblance, unmistakeable and painful, that Zechs couldn't deny.

"Is he Nick's brother?"

"Yes," Eszter sighed. "Joao."

The boy didn't have the breathtaking beauty of his older brother, but his hazel eyes, curly hair and bone structure were close enough to those of Nick that Zechs felt another wave of nausea.

"Only sixteen," Eszter sighed.

Zechs swallowed hard.

After the murder of his parents, after a loyalist group saved him and dumped him with a minor aristocratic family in Greece to be raised as a cousin, Zechs had lied about his age, claiming to be fourteen when he was only twelve so that he could sit the entrance exams for the _École spéciale militaire de Saint-Cyr_. He had made it in, had completed the three-year course in just under two, and had been recommended for the officers training program at the Royal Military Academy in England and had graduated _that_ program at sixteen, had already been noticed by Treize Khushrenada and invited to train with the Specials. At sixteen, he had already done a tour of duty in China, had already participated in a handful of skirmishes that had made him an ace and meant the deaths of five opponents on the battlefield.

Sixteen was too young to have lost everyone.

"Is he-"

"Nick's income gave them a good life. A better life. Joao is enrolled in the Horace Mann School."

And Zechs had taken that away - that good life, that _better_ life.

He made a mental note to make sure Alison set up a trust fund for the boy. He should want for nothing in life, not after this.

"What happens to him now? Did they have _any_ family?"

"No. I'm not sure."

Zechs made a note of that as well. Alison would take care of it, would find out what the boy wanted and orchestrate everything.

He wondered if he should go over, should introduce himself or-

The very thought was abhorrent enough that Zechs had to take a steadying breath.

Either the boy would know, would rightfully blame Zechs for the death of his brother and Zechs's presence would make this that much worse for him. Or he wouldn't know, wouldn't blame Zechs, and _that_ would make all of this that much worse for _Zechs_.

No, best to stay away from him.

"Shall I make sure he has some refreshments? So that you can pay your respects to our boy?" Eszter asked. It wasn't a question. It was a command.

Zechs gave her a brusque nod. He resented being told what to do under almost any circumstances, but, in this instance, he found himself not quite _appreciating,_ but at the very least heeding, the guidance.

Eszter moved away, gliding across the room and wrapping the glaring boy into her heady embrace. She whispered something to him that had him clutching at her, and then she was maneuvering the both of them across the room, away from the casket and to a table that, incongruously, had been laid out with a crystal punch bowl of what looked like lemonade.

Zechs still found himself hesitating, the open casket looming before him like the launch bay of a ship and he, without a mobile suit or EVA suit or _anything_ , found it daunting to approach.

But then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Maxwell shift and straighten up.

Zechs moved towards the casket, working hard to control his breathing and his heart rate and the bile he could feel burning low in his throat.

And there he was.

Nick. As beautiful in death as he had been in life. His skin - it wasn't pale, wasn't lifeless with blood loss or slack, his features no longer pulled into a grimace of pain, and it was unnatural. _So_ unnatural and wrong. He was restored - was simply resting - was as far from the gasping, shuddering bloody body Zechs had clutched just a few days ago as it was possible to imagine.

A glint of blue caught Zechs's attention and he looked at Nick's left ear, at the small Martian diamond earring.

Bile surged in his throat, fighting its way to his mouth, and Zechs turned, barreled through the cluster of people and pushed his way out of the room and looked desperately down the hall, searching for-

He saw the sign for a bathroom and made it, somehow, managed to fall to his knees in front of the toilet and push his hair away just as his body revolted and he retched into the porcelain.

Zechs managed to suck in a few breaths of air before his body heaved again, before the acid flow of bile had him curling forward, panting and choking.

Martian diamonds were unique, impossible to confuse with any other gemstone, their color that mesmerizing shade of blue that was almost violet and their heart as dark as space itself. They cost a fortune, and even after twenty years of human colonization on Mars, were still very, very rare.

Zechs had had a pair of cufflinks made, from one of the stones he brought back to earth. Nick had admired them, had teased them from Zechs's shirt with his tongue and teeth, and grinned in delight when Zechs had smirked.

Zechs had given him the earring on their last evening together, three weeks ago. Nick had been left speechless, the value of the gift making him uneasy for a moment, until Zechs had whispered into his ear conspiratorially, confided that he had a box of the uncut stones in a safety deposit box and claimed he wasn't able to sell them because of some trade laws.

He had been wearing it, Zechs suddenly realized. Had been wearing it the night he died, and Zechs- Zechs had been so tense from a day of profitless meetings that he had been a little impatient, had been so focused on Nick stripping and crawling to him that he hadn't even noticed the boy was wearing it.

Zechs vomited again.

His stomach had been empty to begin with, and after what felt like _hours_ of dry heaving, Zechs finally sank back on his knees and drew in a ragged breath.

"Was it something you ate?"

The voice startled him and Zechs spun around, ungainly and exhausted, and saw Duo Maxwell leaning against the counter, his arms crossed and his lips twisted in a sneer.

"Or is it possible that you've managed to disgust even yourself?"

There was no emotion in any of his words, despite the disgust on his face, and Zechs had the very brief fantasy of shoving Duo Maxwell and Dorothy Catalonia into a small cage together and seeing who would emerge the victor.

With as much dignity as he could pretend, Zechs rose to his feet and approached the sink.

Maxwell waited until Zechs was right in front of them, until there was barely an inch separating them, and then wrinkled his nose as if smelling something foul and took a step to the side to allow Zechs access to the sink.

Zechs looked at himself, at his sallow skin and the dribble of bile on his shirt and his rumpled clothes.

He washed his hands, then cupped water into them and swished it around in his mouth before spitting it out.

As he straightened up, Maxwell waved a paper towel in front of his face.

Zechs took it with a sneer that matched Maxwell's own.

"I'm a little impressed," Maxwell said. He turned and leaned against the wall beside the sink.

Zechs had to arch an eyebrow, but he wasn't enough of an idiot to venture a guess as to what had impressed Maxwell.

"I always knew you were cold, but you must have actual ice running through your veins to invite your friends from the _Herald_ and the _News_ to the wake of a dead kid. Tell me," Maxwell reached over and flicked a piece of lint from Zechs's sleeve, "did you leak the story to them because you wanted to sink Relena's career, or because you couldn't stand to have a day go by without your name in the press?"

Dorothy was vicious, but she was pampered and spoiled. Maxwell had grown up on the streets. Odds were, Zechs mused, likely in his favor.

The words, however, sank in, and Zechs turned to him.

"What do you mean by my friends from the _Herald_ and _News_ \- they have reporters _here_?"

His fury made Maxwell blink and then frown. He nodded once, eyebrows drawing together in a frown.

"The two creeps in the shit suits? Don't tell me you thought they'd send their top society columnists to cover this tawdry thing."

Zechs felt a muscle in his jaw jump as he clamped his mouth shut and forced himself to breathe through his nose.

Reporters from those disgusting rags were _here_. At Nick's funeral.

It was beyond the pale. It was-

"You didn't invite them," Maxwell realized, his acid voice soft.

Zechs didn't dignify that with a response.

"And you didn't leak the story…" Maxwell straightened up and gave an angry huff. "Look, if you'd start just fucking _talking_ , I could-"

"You could _what_?" Zechs demanded, turning on him and advancing until Maxwell was backed against the tile wall. "Tell me, _Agent Maxwell_ , just what you could do? You failed to keep this _quiet_. You failed to capture a known assassin who had been on your watchlist for _years,_ and as a result, he killed an innocent boy. The Earthsphere is as much a tangled web of deceit and violence as it has _always_ been - worse, now that we don't have mobile suits to target or armies to scout. Now, the villains lurk in every shadow because the _Preventers_ put them there. So, tell me, _what the hell_ you _could do?"_

Maxwell's eyes had widened and then narrowed during Zechs's speech, his icy tone and sharp words clearly having an impact on the shorter man.

Remarkably, or perhaps intelligently, Maxwell didn't have anything to say in response.

"You don't belong here," Zechs growled.

"Neither do you," Maxwell snapped, and it was true, so very painfully true. "That kid-"

"-was not a _child_." Zechs was so _done_ with hearing Nick described as a juvenile.

"He'd been selling his body since he was thirteen, at _least_ ," Maxwell reminded him. "He'd been taken advantage of probably his whole fucking life, and he was _nineteen_. He was a fucking _kid,_ and _this_ \- He shouldn't be a body in a fucking box, but even _that_ \- You've got fucking tabloid reporters here, oozing their fucking scum all over-"

Zechs shoved Maxwell back against the wall, his rage and his inability to control seemingly _any_ situation over the last four days driving him to act, to punish this foul-mouthed pain in his ass.

Maxwell's hands came up, gripping Zechs's arms and pushing back against him, but Zechs was bigger, was in a better position, and-

Maxwell punched him in the side, his fist connecting with Zechs's bruised ribs, and Zechs groaned in pain, his grip on the other man almost failing.

"Get the fuck _off_ of me," Maxwell warned, ready to lash out again before Zechs repositioned, twisting Maxwell's arms and pinning them to his chest and using that point of leverage to keep him against the wall.

Maxwell's nostrils flared and his cheeks turned pink, his eyes volcanic.

It was then, at that moment, that Zechs noticed the violet smears on Maxwell's neck, just above the collar of his shirt.

His hand. His doing. His bruises.

Zechs released Maxwell and stepped away from him, ignoring the staccato drum of his own heartbeat and the rush of blood in his ears.

Zechs watched the other man draw in a shaky breath, watched him run his hands over his clothes and lick his lips.

"Those pricks from the _News_ and the _Herald_ couldn't investigate their way around a donut," Maxwell said, voice a little breathless. "Someone leaked the ki- Nick Sousa's death to them in the first place, and I guarantee they leaked this event to them as well. If it wasn't you," Maxwell paused and gave him an assessing look, "then it was the cops, or it was whoever was behind this shit in the first place. Which reminds me. You ready to start talking yet?"

Zechs's only response was an icy glare.

Maxwell shrugged.

"Fine. I'm getting hazard pay for having to deal with such a high-profile _public figure_ anyway. Drag this out until you get yourself killed - and a few dozen more civilians along the way - if that's what you want."

Zechs felt anger curl through him again, but he forced himself to swallow it down.

He looked past Maxwell and back to the mirror. He adjusted his tie and flicked a wayward strand of hair off of his collar.

And then he walked out of the bathroom without a backwards glance.

-o-


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: For Crown of Winterthorne, as a bribe for more of her AMAZING Westworld 2x3 fic.

A/N2: Title from the song by Stars

A/N3: Always, always thankful to Ro for beta reading and friendship. You are amazing.

A/N4: Okay, here's the deal. Writing is tough, especially for me. Over the years I've been lucky to have incredible people support me and tell me how much they enjoy my work, but I've also had those comments and reviews that just completely derail me and make me wonder why the hell I'm doing any of this or why I'm enough of an idiot to think anyone would even care.

So, no, this is not an update on any of the many WIPs I have going, and if you don't enjoy this fic then I am sorry.

But if you do, even a little, I cannot express how much it means to me to see that someone took the time to leave a review. Even if that review is "thanks" - it has a HUGE impact.

ALSO: THANK YOU SO SO SO SO SO MUCH to everyone who has left a review for this on and AO3. I seriously… I LOVE you all and am so so so grateful. I know I don't always respond, but I am just… I'm so very very happy every time I see one and I feel SO good about this story and I'm so happy people like it and just… thank you. Thank you.

A/N5: POVs are going to switch back and forth between Duo and Zechs. Might be two chapters in each or just one, depends on the pacing.

Warnings: angst, language, violence, sex, death, blood

Pairings: 6x2, others…

 _Midnight Coward_

Chapter Seven

Getting into the building was depressingly easy.

After almost a week of surveillance on Merquise's apartment building, Duo had managed to assemble a rough schedule of the man's traffic patterns. It wasn't great - if this had been a less time-sensitive op, he would have taken at least another week to establish the man's routines - but it was functional. Especially since it became very clear, after the first two days, that once Merquise left his apartment for the day, he didn't come back until early evening at the soonest.

When Merquise left on Friday morning, escorted from the lobby to his car by a burly man who strained the seams of the cheap, dark suit he wore, Duo made his move.

He knew he wasn't getting in through the front - even if the porter who had been on duty the other night wasn't there, Duo was confident _this_ was the kind of place that kept photos and records of people they didn't trust. No one would be opening the door for _him_.

So he went around back, hopping over a few fences and upsetting two neighborhood toms in the middle of a fight, and lounged against the back wall of the apartment building and lit a cigarette.

He'd never liked smoking, never thought the Terran custom was anything other than stupid and suicidal, but after years of hanging around Trowa Barton, Duo had learned the usefulness of it.

And sure enough, after an hour of waiting, the back door opened and a line of women ranging in age from young to elderly came out of the building, chattering away.

A dark haired woman was with them, slower than the rest, and she was the only one to glance at Duo with more than passing interest.

He smirked at her, taking out the cigarette and blowing out a stream of the acrid smoke. And she leaned towards him or it.

"Morning," he greeted her, before taking another drag.

She looked from him to the departing line of women, and then back at him.

"Morning."

He held out a fresh cigarette to her and, after a pause, she took it and placed it between her pale lips.

Duo leaned over and used his own cigarette to light hers, noting the way she blushed at his proximity.

"Nice day to clean up someone else's shit, huh?" he muttered as he settled back against the brick wall.

Her lips twitched, but she shrugged noncommittally.

"You're right," he agreed with a sigh. "Never a good day for that."

Her lips moved again, but she covered the smile with an exhale of smoke.

"Which one of them do you deal with?"

"The Bergens - 2C," she said with a shrug. "It was fine before, but they had twins a few months ago and now it's…"

"Puke and poop everywhere?" Duo guessed.

She grimaced and nodded.

"Oh yeah," Duo smirked. "They're the ones with that - whaddaya call it -" he made a vague gesture with his hands, roughly outlining a rectangle, and made a face at the same time, "in their living room?"

She laughed.

"You mean the piano bookcase?" she suggested.

Duo nodded.

"Yeah - so weird, right?"

She nodded in agreement and rolled her eyes.

"Susan said that the Wong guy - I think he's 4B? - has a coffee table made out of an old mech suit. All of these people are weird."

Duo nodded again.

"You ever been up to the penthouse? That guy - it's like he's living in some pre-Colony European mansion or something," Duo muttered.

The woman shrugged one shoulder.

"Probably. He's old world royalty. Ludovica cleans for him - he treats her well. Better than the rest of them treat us," she added with another grimace.

"No puke or poop up there, I bet," Duo agreed.

She smirked at him, and flicked her eyes over the worn coveralls he had pulled on over his clothes, her gaze pausing at the toolbelt slung low on his hips.

"Hugo is sick?" she asked.

Hugo was, Duo had to assume, the maintenance man for the building.

"Nah. Boss wanted me to come by and check out the incinerator."

She made a face, but nodded in acceptance of the excuse.

Duo sighed and straightened up. He snubbed out the cigarette under his boot and sighed.

"Which I should probably get back to before someone chews me out for screwing around and flirting with a pretty girl instead of doing my job."

She rolled her eyes but blushed again.

Duo grinned at her and walked towards the door she and the other cleaning ladies had used to exit the building, but as he approached he reached into his pockets and made a show of searching for a key.

"Mother- _shit_. I left my keycard in the basement on that- I am _such_ an idiot! That dick at the front desk is going to give me _so_ much shit for this. Urgh, I did _not_ need-"

"It's okay," the woman spoke up, and moved towards him.

Duo looked over his shoulder and saw her reaching into a pocket. She pulled out a keycard and waved it at him.

"My hero," he breathed.

She smirked and used her keycard to open the door.

"Let me buy you coffee? Or lunch? Or a weekend in Vermont? I need another hour here, but then-"

"Sorry. I've got a boyfriend. And you're a little _too_ handsome for me."

Duo had to laugh.

"Is there such a thing as _too_ handsome?"

She looked him over, from head to foot, and then arched an eyebrow.

"Yes, there definitely is. But thanks for the cig. We'll call it even."

She held the door open for him and he blew her a kiss, which she swatted from the air with a wave of her hand before putting her cigarette back in her mouth.

Duo let the door close and then shook his head.

Too easy.

It was a wonder no one had murdered Merquise _here_.

Duo used the service stairs to get to Merquise's apartment, climbing flight after flight and silently cursing the man for being pretentious enough to live in a _penthouse_ apartment in a fifteen storey building. He could have risked the service elevator, but he didn't know if it, like the front elevator, was manned.

He had worked up a sheen of perspiration by the time he reached the top, and had to reflect that he needed to start running again or his PT recertification times were going to be way too slow for Duo to give Wufei shit about his own.

Picking the lock for the service door into Merquise's apartment was, once again, depressingly easy.

As soon as Duo was inside, he slipped out of his boots so that he didn't track any dirt over floors that had no doubt just been polished by Ludovica.

He did a cursory sweep of the apartment, marvelling again at the sheer size of the place and the ostentatious furnishings, and then he got to work.

Merquise was hiding something, probably a _lot_ of somethings, and if he wasn't about to start talking, Duo would resort to other tactics to find out just what the man was up to.

He had managed to sweet talk Jayesh in R&D out of a half-dozen of the Preventers brand new surveillance bugs, beautiful little cameras that were nearly translucent centimeter squares less than 1.5 millimeters thick. Duo spread them out over the apartment, setting up one in the living room near the phone system, one in the bedroom, one in the foyer and another in the library, placing it so there was a direct line of sight to the computer monitor. Jayesh had warned Duo that the audio was stellar but the video still very grainy on these prototypes, so if he needed to see something clearly, he needed to get as close as possible.

After setting up the cameras and checking the feed for each on his datapad, Duo sat down at Merquise's computer.

He had actually taken Duo's advice and had new firewalls installed - and the coding style was so different from the others that Duo doubted it had been the same tech. He smirked and proceeded to circumvent all of the new security and access the data that he hadn't had time to look through thoroughly on his last visit to chez Merquise.

Ideally, a data dump would be the best idea, but Merquise had his system setup to record all incoming and outcoming files. If Duo wanted to wipe _that_ log, the very absence of routine system updates would clue Merquise - or his tech - into the fact that someone had been snooping.

So Duo would have to do things the very, _very_ old-fashioned way.

He searched for all notations of financial transactions and Merquise's travel log over the last two years, and scribbled down names and places on a scrap of paper.

He was clicking through page after page of quarterly fiscal reports that made Duo want to scratch out his own eyes when his phone alarm started to ring.

Duo was caught off-guard by the shrill bleating, and actually threw himself to the floor under the desk before he realized what it was.

"Maxwell, you are a fucking idiot," he muttered to himself, as he fished the phone out of his pocket and looked at the screen.

 _Appointment with Marisi_.

Shit.

The psychologist hadn't been kidding when he said that his cooperation required Duo to do weekly appointments with him. Duo had already had two calls from Marisi's office to remind him of the appointment, and even Wufei had stopped by Duo's depressing cubicle yesterday to tell him that he had better not blow off the damn thing.

With a groan, Duo got back onto his feet and started to exit out of the computer and wipe down the keyboard.

At least Merquise's apartment was only a short subway ride to Marisi's office. It meant Duo had plenty of time to get out, go over two blocks and ditch his coveralls and ersatz toolbelt in a dumpster, and grab a cup of coffee so that he wasn't at the mercy of Marisi's questionable barista skills.

Of course, that didn't mean that he wouldn't be at Marisi's mercy regarding _other_ things. Other things far, far more painful than overly-sweet, decaf coffee.

By the time he reached Marisi's office, Duo was five minutes early and the slow churn of anxiety in his belly had spread.

Marisi welcomed him into his office with an open, friendly gesture and a sympathetic smile. No false cheer, no 'pleasure to see you' - just the unspoken order to sit and make himself miserable.

"First week back on the job - how did it feel?"

The question took Duo a little by surprise. He had thought Marisi would start off by reminding Duo of the _question_ he had asked last week, the words that had tortured Duo ever since.

 _How many more times will you be able to kill Kate Munoz over the next fifty years?_

Duo had even figured out his answer, had stood in front of his bathroom mirror and practised saying it long enough to do so with a straight face and empty eyes.

"I, uh, it's been… fine."

It hadn't, of course, been anything approaching _fine_.

The elevator huddles - agents moving as far from Duo as they possibly could - had continued. Lunch in the mess hall had been interesting - the two days that Duo had tortured himself with it before giving up and going to one of the food trucks instead. He had never experienced walking into a room and all conversation coming to a complete stop when he walked in - not a room full of more than fifty men and women, at any rate. People moved to different tables when he sat down, and the baleful glare of Reynolds speared him from across the room as the ex-Alliance man watched Duo resolutely take his time eating the bland food. There were perks, of course - people cleared out of the locker room when he went to change, and abandoned the free weights in the gym when he approached so he didn't have to wait his turn. They also abandoned the shooting range when he appeared, Charlie apparently the only person outside of Jasmin in Forensics and Jayesh in R&D who could stomach being within fifty feet of him.

There had also been some mediocre hackers who had taken it upon themselves to remind Duo of just how hostile the entire Preventers staff was towards him. Three times now he had sat down in front of his computer and, after logging in, had found the background on his desktop to be a full screen image of Kate Munoz's obituary.

"Fine is a word that means very little," Marisi mused.

Duo sighed and looked over at the large, smooth man.

"Yeah, well… I can't exactly spill operational details to you, can I?"

Marisi arched an eyebrow.

"You aren't the first law enforcement officer who has sought out counseling. Not only is what you say protected by our doctor-patient relationship, but I know when not to press for more details. I have also been granted a rather high civilian security clearance by your station chief."

Wufei. Doing his level best to torture Duo any way he could, it seemed.

"Well, I didn't exactly _seek out_ counseling," Duo had to mutter.

Marisi's lips moved into what might have been a grin.

"No, you didn't. But since you find yourself here, why not take advantage of the situation? Tell me, what relationship do you currently have with the agents involved in the… incident that led to your suspension?"

"You mean the seven guys who jumped me in the locker room?"

"You hospitalized four of them."

Duo shrugged again, and forced himself to lean back against the too-soft couch and appear relaxed.

"Old habits die hard, I guess."

Marisi arched an eyebrow.

"They were - most of them, anyway - Alliance. Two were OZ."

"Ah. And you were simply reverting back to a war-time instinct to destroy your enemies."

"I-" Duo started to defend himself, but Marisi was right. They _were_ his enemies. They had been _before,_ and they clearly were now as well.

Even Han Reynolds.

"Have you had any interactions with them since returning to active duty?"

"Not really." Not after that first day and the near-fight he and Reynolds had gotten into in front of Wufei. Not since Reynolds seemed to be watching Duo's every move at Preventers HQ, and all of his subordinates took their cues from him and stayed far, far away from Duo.

"And _before_ the incident, before Kate Munoz's death - what relationship did you have with them?"

Duo sighed.

"I don't know. It was… fine. We worked together. We didn't go out for drinks or anything, but it was… it was fine."

"Mm."

Marisi didn't look like he was buying it.

"Look, I've never had… _friends_ in the agency. I'm responsible for a lot of deaths, a lot of damage - I did some awful shit during the war, and there aren't that many people who were unaffected by me. Especially in Preventers. They don't want much to do with me, and I don't really want much to do with them. The… the _incident_ didn't really change that."

It had, of course. It had made everything so much worse. But there was no need to start whining about that to Marisi. To anyone.

"Was Munoz a friend?"

And there it was, the dagger of pain and hatred that went all the way to Duo's core.

He swallowed and had to clear his throat.

"She…"

"You were her training officer, weren't you?"

Duo nodded.

"Her second TO. The first… she didn't get along with him so well. I took over, and we… we got along."

"But you weren't friends?"

"No. I- yeah. Yeah, we were friends." Duo had let Munoz drag him out to a few bars, a few clubs, had let her egg him on until he danced with the men who flirted with him and he had been her wingman, had casually shoved her into Anna at a bar one night and watched with a smirk as they tried to clean Kate's spilled martini off of each other. And Duo had been at their wedding, had danced with them both and had had to choke back unexpected tears when Kate told him she and Anna wanted to name their son after him. Henry David.

"Do you have friends outside of work?"

The question shook Duo out of the dark, suffocating memories.

"I, um. Not here." Not since Wufei had put him on leave. Not since Duo had made a fool of himself by getting drunk and showing up at Wufei's apartment in the dead of night and Wufei had taken pity on him, had taken him to bed and touched Duo like he wasn't scum, like he wasn't the most pathetic colony rat Wufei had ever encountered. Not since Duo had woken up the next morning and fled before Wufei could say anything, could do anything.

"Back in Brussels?" Marisi prodded.

Duo nodded.

"Yeah. And up in space."

"Friends that you speak to often?"

Duo shook his head in the negative.

He hadn't spoken to Hilde in almost nine months, and he knew he needed to send her a message, should check on her. He hadn't spoken to Heero since the last time he and Relena had been to New York, four months ago. Hadn't spoken to Quatre since his annual Christmas video call. And Trowa… it had been… fuck. Duo couldn't even remember the last time they had spoken.

"Are there any organizations, any clubs you are part of? Any social activities you engage in?"

Duo had to snort a derisive laugh. Marisi raised his eyebrows.

"No," Duo sighed. "No social activities. I'm not… I'm not very good with people. With civilians."

Marisi looked thoughtful for a moment.

"Have you ever tried going to a veteran's support group?"

Duo stared at him.

"Are you… are you serious?"

It was painful enough to sit here and talk to Marisi; or rather, try to _not_ talk to him. It would be so very much worse to be surrounded by his former enemies and listen to them wax poetic about the glory days before the warm or to talk about the trauma they had suffered at _his_ hands.

"You really think I can just show up at a support group and sit around while a bunch of… _veterans_ ," Duo managed to catch himself before saying something worse, "talk about all the shit _I_ did to them?"

Marisi frowned, but he didn't push the point.

"There are support groups for law enforcement as well. People who have had similar experiences to yours and-"

"Similar to- Look, Dr. Marisi, there is _no one_ who's had similar experiences to me. I mean, there are maybe- maybe four people who have been through a fraction of what I've been through, who understand just how fucking dark humanity can get and-" Duo abruptly realized he was wrong. There weren't four other people who knew. There were, he had to admit, five.

Zechs Merquise, selfish, narcissistic asshole that he was, clearly knew just how fucked up the world was and just how culpable _he_ was in the general shitty state of things. The look in his eyes, the twist of his lips and the vehemence of his words in the bathroom at the funeral home rang true, hit _home_ for Duo.

"And?" Marisi prompted patiently.

"And… and it's not something you talk about. It's not… There's no group therapy for surviving the worst shit humanity throws at you and then _becoming_ the monster you were always afraid of."

That was saying too much, and Duo regretted it instantly, even before the speculative glimmer in Marisi's eyes sent off warning bells in his head.

"What is your opinion of the other former Gundam pilots?" Marisi asked.

On-edge now, knowing he had been far too honest and wary of continuing the trend, Duo shrugged.

"I think they… are all productive members of society."

"And you aren't?"

"I… I'm trying," Duo offered.

"If you weren't a Preventer, what _would_ you be doing?"

It was a question Duo had asked himself time and time again over the years. A question others had asked him as well.

He remembered Kate asking him that, once, early on in their partnership. They had both had a few too many beers, had played five rounds of darts before Kate grudgingly admitted defeat and Duo hadn't been able to answer her. Hadn't been able to think, in his drunken state, of what he could possibly do that wasn't working for Preventers, that wasn't trying to repair the damage he had wrought.

"Nothing good," Duo muttered.

"You didn't join right away. You waited a few years - what did you do in the interim?"

"Worked at a scrap metal yard on L2. With a friend."

"And why did you decide to change careers?"

Duo decided that soft, round Marisi with his smooth, dark skin was too insightful, too strategic. The man should have been an OZ interrogator.

"After the war… things weren't great in the colonies. This was before the Winner Outreach interventions. When the local governments were still… When there wasn't much people could rely on. I was working out of L2, but I got around, hauling junk from all over the Earthsphere and I… met a bunch of people. I saw all of the damage, all of the things we'd broken in the name of peace. And I did the right thing. I joined Preventers because I had a debt to work off."

That, and Trowa Barton was a manipulative bastard who had asked Duo for a favor, had used Duo's connections to get himself embedded with a smuggling group that Duo had worked with for more than a year, a crusty group of anarchists who had no love for Terrans and who Duo had always respected. A group that, it turned out, had been smuggling weapons to a handful of reactionary terrorist groups that had used those weapons to stage a minor revolt on a mining colony that had led to the deaths of almost three hundred civilians. A group that Duo had bought from, that Duo had _supported_ and trusted. A group that had splashed even more blood on Duo's already-drenched hands.

And from there, it had all unraveled. Duo had started investigating some of the other groups he worked with, had opened his own damn eyes and realized that _he_ was aiding people who were working their asses off to put an end to the peace that humanity was so desperately clinging to.

"And how long will it take you to work off that debt?"

The look in Marisi's eyes made it clear that he already knew what Duo's answer would be.

This debt wasn't the kind of thing it was possible to get out from under. It would be something Duo dragged with him for the rest of this life, would be the thing that no doubt finally did him in.

"Fifty years?" Duo managed, with a wry, despairing twist of his lips.

-o-


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: For Crown of Winterthorne, as a bribe for more of her AMAZING Westworld 2x3 fic.

A/N2: Title from the song by Stars

A/N3: Always, always thankful to Ro for beta reading and friendship. You are amazing.

A/N4: Okay, here's the deal. Writing is tough, especially for me. Over the years I've been lucky to have incredible people support me and tell me how much they enjoy my work, but I've also had those comments and reviews that just completely derail me and make me wonder why the hell I'm doing any of this or why I'm enough of an idiot to think anyone would even care.

So, no, this is not an update on any of the many WIPs I have going, and if you don't enjoy this fic then I am sorry.

But if you do, even a little, I cannot express how much it means to me to see that someone took the time to leave a review. Even if that review is "thanks" - it has a HUGE impact.

ALSO: THANK YOU SO SO SO SO SO MUCH to everyone who has left a review for this on and AO3. I seriously… I LOVE you all and am so so so grateful. I know I don't always respond, but I am just… I'm so very very happy every time I see one and I feel SO good about this story and I'm so happy people like it and just… thank you. Thank you.

A/N5: POVs are going to switch back and forth between Duo and Zechs. Might be two chapters in each or just one, depends on the pacing.

Warnings: angst, language, violence, sex, death, blood

Pairings: 6x2, others…

 _Midnight Coward_

Chapter Eight

Finance and Fraud was located on the sixth floor, and it was a level that most field agents tried to steer clear of. There was a simmering feud between field agents and the sixth floor. The field agents thought the sixth floor guys weren't "real" agents, in the sense that they completed their annual PT recertifications but didn't break a sweat for the rest of the year unless it was to catch the elevator and leave for the day right at five. The sixth floor, meanwhile, viewed the field agents as dumb jocks who couldn't follow a paper-trail from their own desk to a trashcan.

It didn't help matters that Preventers was a largely meritocratic promotion system - if you took down bad guys and made the agency look good, you got promoted. If you kept your nose down and worked hard, well… that was nice, but not flashy enough for a promotion and pay raise. This meant that field agents would, if at all possible, do most of their own background investigative work, and Finance and Fraud would sooner cut their keyboards in half than hand over a juicy case to the jocks.

Duo, of course, didn't give a flying fuck about rivalries or promotions. Even so, he had only been on the sixth floor once before, had been _invited_ down to prep some of their agents for a sting operation involving fraudulent immigration documents and, after casually mentioning to Wufei that the tie-clip guys seemed nice and he hoped the Russian mafia didn't send them back in body-bags, Duo had been gifted the case. He had stayed as far away from the floor since, knowing that they would hold it against him _regardless_ of the fact that he had had no intention of stealing the case.

So, when the elevator doors slid open and Duo stepped onto the open floor _filled_ with cubicles, only the perimeter bearing the doors of proper offices, Duo drew in a deep breath and prepared to be greeted with as much scorn as he would have been had he gone to the third floor and asked Reynolds for some back-up.

Duo tried to look casual as he approached the receptionist's desk, tried to look confident and at-ease and-

"What do you want?" she asked, looking at him with a sneer.

"I, uh, need an analyst for a case I'm-"

"What's your name?"

Strange, how relieved Duo was to realize that she hated him on principle and not because of who he was.

"Duo Maxwell."

She lifted an eyebrow.

"You want an analyst, or you want to steal another case?"

Duo rolled his eyes.

"Look, it wasn't _like_ that. The _Vory v zakone_ would have eaten your guys for breakfast, and I-"

"And you just had to jump in and play the big goddamn hero card. I know. We know. We _all_ know."

She glared at him, and Duo shifted.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled.

"Uh huh. Well, you're lucky we don't hold grudges. We're professionals, here to do our work and make the world safer. Unlike _some_ of the agents here, we care more about results than explosions."

"I appreciate that," Duo assured her.

"I'll bet you do. Eun Park can work with you."

"I… thank you."

"She's one of our best," the receptionist told Duo with a toothy smile that had him wondering if Eun Park even knew how to log into the Preventers database. "That way, cubicle 37."

Duo hadn't realized the cubicles were numbered, and now that he looked, he could see the little placards with the numbers on the sides of each. Bad enough to be in a cubicle, but to be in a _numbered_ cubicle?

Trust Finance and Fraud to reduce even their own agents to numbers.

Duo walked down the row of cubicles she had indicated, and stopped hesitantly by cubicle 37.

It was, of course, empty.

Duo sighed and turned around, fully expecting to see the receptionist cackling at him. Probably Eun Park had been dead or reassigned for months, and this was just her way of getting back at him.

A petite, red haired woman barreled into him, digging her shoulder into his side and shoving him away.

"Sorry," she mumbled, not sounding sorry at all.

Duo arched an eyebrow, and then sighed as he saw her sit down in the chair at cubicle 37.

She dropped an armful of files on her desk and adjusted the thin-framed glasses on her face before turning to glare at him.

"You need something?"

Duo felt his lips twitch.

 _One of our best, my ass._ He wondered how many times Eun Park had been written up.

"Yeah." He jerked his thumb towards the receptionist's desk. "I need an analyst, and she gave me you."

Eun's eyes narrowed.

"She _gave_ me to you? Really."

She leaned back in their chair and crossed her arms.

Duo sighed again. Karma. Clearly, this was karma.

"Yeah, so I'm working a case and I need some financial investigations on-"

"You're working a case? How cute." She tapped the pile of folders. "I'm working _seven_ cases."

"That's… impressive?"

She sneered at him, and Duo decided to go ahead and pull rank. It wouldn't make her any happier, but it was probably the only way he would get this taken care of.

"Look, my case has priority over whatever you're-"

"Do you even _know_ what I'm working on?"

"No, but this-"

"I could be reviewing the ESUN financial disclosure forms. I could be tracking the bribes made to public officials on behalf of WEI to see if Saint Winner was involved. I could be looking into the war reparations funding that was supposed to fund colonial reconstruction but has mysteriously vanished. I could-"

"Wait, wait, what was that about WEI bribes?"

She smirked at him.

"Sorry, I'm not sure you have the security clearance for me to brief you on that. Now, whatever piddling data composites you need might _seem_ difficult to your tiny brain, but I'm sure your fingers can use a keyboard and I know it's not as exciting as punching someone in the face, but, well, we all have to make sacrifices for the greater good."

Duo couldn't decide if he loved or loathed Eun Park.

"Last week, there was an assassination attempt on Zechs Merquise. The assassin was a Croatian national by the name of Ilija Horvat. We haven't been able to find any bank accounts, and we have no idea why he did it."

"Did you try _asking_ him?"

"He's dead."

Eun shrugged.

"He probably just wanted to kill that prick."

Duo arched an eyebrow at her tone. It wasn't that Merquise was respected by Preventers - there were a few, especially from the old guard, who still worshipped him, but most of the younger agents viewed him with mild to extreme distaste.

"Probably, but Brussels wants us to figure out a better reason than that."

Eun made a frustrated sound, and threw her head back.

"I have important work! I do not want to be pulled off my cases to deal with this garbage!"

Duo felt the exact same way. Of course, he didn't have any important cases - had, in fact, been pulled off his couch to deal with this. But, all the same, he sympathized. Immensely.

"Merquise claims he has no idea who could possibly want him dead."

Eun snorted derisively, and Duo decided he definitely loved her.

"Yeah, and I have no idea who gives me Christmas presents every year marked 'from Santa.'"

"I've got a list of his holdings, a couple of business partners and investments."

Duo had typed the list up yesterday, after his appointment with Marisi, and he took a folded copy of it out of his pocket and held it out.

Eun stared at it until Duo started to wave it.

With a groan, she grabbed it from his hand and unfolded it.

"Labou-Marte Industries?"

"He owns it."

Eun whistled.

"With that kind of money, why doesn't he just have a private army follow his ass around and protect him?"

"Because he's an arrogant prick," Duo muttered.

Eun snorted, and Duo watched her look over the list.

"Hm. I wonder…"

She turned to her computer and started to type rapidly.

"Yeah. You've got Didier Beauchene on your list."

"Uh huh?" Duo had no idea who that was, which was why he had made a note of the name in the first place.

"He was the President of LMI - founded it twenty years ago."

" _Was_?"

"Yeah, a year after Merquise became the principal investor, it looks like he bought Beauchene out. And Beauchene went on to found Avenir."

"The med-tech company?"

"Yeah. Why is he on your list again?"

"Merquise is still paying him - over the last two years, he's made quarterly transfers of something like seven million creds a year into an account in his name."

"Hm. That's interesting. Especially considering the fact that Avenir and LMI are constantly in competition for government contracts."

At Duo's blank look, she rolled her eyes.

"LMI got that sweet deal in Russia a few weeks ago? They're supplying all of the bio-tech for the government hospitals? It was a huge contract. A lot of red-tape. Austin - cubicle 14 - was doing overtime for two weeks to make sure it was all legit."

"Legit how?"

"As in no traceable bribes to Russian government officials, no inflated or deflated values, no under-the-table deals."

"And?"

Eun shrugged.

"And it was legit. LMI's not making a profit, like _at all_ , but those kinds of contracts aren't about that, anyway, are they?"

"They're not?"

Eun looked at him like he was a very, very slow and incredibly disappointing child.

"No, they're not. They're about getting a foothold in the government hospitals so you can run clinical trials for your tech. Free prototype testing."

"Right."

Unbidden, memories of the plague swam before Duo's eyes. The plague that had had a cure, that had been contained on his colony so that a pharma-tech company could study the efficacy of their vaccines.

"Anyway, Avenir's been under a lot of scrutiny for the past year. The chief operating officer was sent to prison in Qatar for taking bribes, and Beauchene's been trying to rebuild their image. Can't be easy with them losing so many contracts to LMI."

Duo nodded in agreement.

It wasn't that strong of a motive, but it wasn't nothing either.

"Can you give me details on LMI and Avenir? And dossiers on those other names?"

Eun turned back to him and cocked her head to one side, considering him.

"Maybe."

Duo sputtered.

" _Maybe?_ "

She smirked and leaned forward in her chair.

"I want out of Finance and Fraud, and if _you_ help me get into the field officers training program, then I'll get this intel for you."

Duo glared at her. The fact that she was holding this intel as ransom was one thing. The fact that she honestly thought _he_ could help her get into the field officers training program was… almost comical.

"Han Reynolds runs the third floor," Duo pointed out. "And Han Reynolds hates me."

"Han Reynolds hates me too. And he doesn't run the Academy in Brussels."

Duo sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"I'm not exactly the best reference for-"

"You're telling me that Duo Maxwell can't pull a few strings with his old buddy Trowa Barton to get me into the Academy?"

She knew who he was, which wasn't all that surprising, but it had been nice to delude himself into thinking that she, like the receptionist, hated him because of the field agent logo on his sleeve instead of knowing that he had actually earned her hatred.

"Yeah," he said at last. "Trowa would take my word for it if I told him you were a good candidate. But I'm not going to put _my_ reputation on the line and pull strings for you when I don't even know if you're worth it."

She grinned, her lips pulling back to reveal a lot of perfect teeth, and Duo realized he had been maneuvered.

"Then I'll work with you on this case. Not just getting you the intel, but doing field work. That, and you can train me. And then we'll call it even."

There were so very, _very_ many reasons to say no to her.

But she had proven, in less than ten minutes, exactly why he actually needed her.

"Fine," he sighed. "But if you fuck up - if you aren't good enough to cut it - I'm not recommending you."

She smirked again.

"Deal. I'll have a prelim analysis for you tomorrow afternoon. And the day after that we can do lunch at the shooting range."

He wanted to argue, wanted to at least make her work around _his_ schedule - but there was no point.

She had a look in her eyes that was eerily reminiscent of Quatre at his most determined.

Quatre.

"About those WEI-"

"You don't have clearance," she said, already turning away from him and starting to type on her computer again.

Duo might not have clearance, but he sure as hell had motivation. He made a mental note to hack into the servers later in the week and find out what he could.

Duo managed to escape the floor with only a baleful glare from the receptionist, and then he returned to his own desk on the third floor.

If the sixth floor had felt hostile, the third felt like a firing squad was taking aim.

As soon as he stepped out of the elevator, he could _feel_ the glares of the agents as they looked up from their desks.

Duo pasted a shit-eating smirk on his face and shoved his hands into his pockets. He strolled through the desks, casual and leisurely, until he reached his own and sat down in front of the computer.

He'd been gone less than an hour, and some asshole had decided to leave a post-it note on the monitor.

 **Who are you going to get killed next?**

Duo was painfully aware of the fact that people were still watching him.

He reached out and lifted the note and, instead of tossing it, moved it to the side of the monitor so that he could see the screen more clearly.

4:25.

Field agent hours weren't as regulated as the rest of the building, and before his suspension, Duo had rarely stayed until 5. He had, on more than a few occasions, stayed late into the night when it was called for. But the thing about being a field agent was that most of your time was spent _in the field_. Riding a desk didn't sit well with any of them, Duo even less so.

All the same, he wasn't about to get up and leave, to admit defeat.

So he opened the database and started to look for articles about Zechs Merquise and his acquisition of LMI.

Duo had read the _extremely_ redacted file the agency had on Merquise in the database already. Had been pointedly told by Wufei that he didn't _need_ to see an unredacted version and he didn't have clearance. Merquise's file, like those of the former Gundam pilots, was eyes-only for Une, and no one else.

Reading between the lines and giant black boxes, Duo had compiled a working dossier on the former would-be dictator.

But that didn't mean he _knew_ him, or understood him. And it sure as hell didn't mean he liked him.

Two hours later, Duo realized that he was one of only a handful of agents still at work, and he shut down his computer. He hesitated, thinking he should probably take the time to code a better security network than the standard Preventers setup, but he also knew that it would probably inspire someone to go down to level two and get a guy from tech to hack the system.

His eyes flickered over to the note again.

 **Who are you going to get killed next?**

Who indeed?

Duo noticed that Reynolds was still at _his_ desk, and he offered the glaring man a jaunty wave that turned into a one fingered salute. Reynolds' eyes narrowed, but he didn't say anything or rise to the bait.

The trains home were crowded, civilians jostling Duo back and forth as they chattered on about their days, their ordinary lives.

After he got off at his stop, he walked three blocks over to Lee Chin and ordered his usual family-sized Moo Shu vegetable takeout order. It would get him through the rest of the week and, because _someone_ was deluded enough not to hate him for what he had done, the woman who owned the restaurant loaded him up with their biodegradable plates and forks. He wouldn't even have to worry about dishes.

Once home, Duo scooped out a generous portion of the food before putting it in the fridge and grabbing a beer.

He settled himself on his couch and cued up the surveillance footage of Merquise's apartment from the previous night.

Duo already knew the prick hadn't been killed, so watching the footage was, more than his morbid curiosity, to find out who and what Merquise might be involved with.

The first half-hour was dull as dirt. Merquise didn't arrive home until after nine, which was within the same half-hour window that Duo had observed in the days before he had installed the bugs.

Of course, unlike those other nights, Merquise wasn't alone.

Duo didn't immediately recognize the man he had with him. Duo had set the foyer camera up to get a clear shot of anyone stepping out of the elevator, but Merquise went first and blocked Duo's view of the other man.

It wasn't until they were in Merquise's bedroom and the man spoke that Duo was able to identify him.

"When Alison told me you wanted to see me tonight, she warned me to be on my best behavior."

It was Mark, the attorney from the police station.

And Alison, Duo had learned from a series of increasingly annoying and unproductive phone calls, was Merquise's personal attorney. Mark's superior, he was guessing.

Merquise chuckled, the sound surprisingly warm.

"I'll bet she did. What _else_ did she mention?" There was a sharpness to Merquise's voice, a warning that even Duo, across time and space, could recognize.

Mark took a moment to respond, and Duo watched as he walked around Merquise, deeper into the bedroom, and stopped beside the bed. He sat down on the edge and looked up at Merquise.

"She told me that if I pissed you off she would fire me."

"And if you _don't_ piss me off?"

"Then she wouldn't fire me. I know not to have any kind of expectations."

Merquise took a long moment to consider the other man, but then he stepped forward and reached down to tilt Mark's chin upwards.

"If you don't want to be here, she won't fire you."

"I _want_ to be here," Mark assured him.

Duo realized, belatedly, that he was about to watch them fuck. He had known, had figured that out as soon as they walked into the bedroom, and Mark sitting on the bed had _definitely_ made it clear that that was the direction this was heading. But Duo hadn't really thought about the fact that _he_ was about to watch them fuck.

Not until Mark reached up and started to unfasten Merquise's trousers.

Merquise reached down and rubbed his thumb over Mark's mouth, and Duo heard him chuckle again.

The video quality wasn't good enough to see what Mark had done, but it was clearly something Merquise had enjoyed.

The chuckle turned into a low groan when Mark leaned forward. Duo didn't need a clear line of sight or a diagram to guess that Mark was sucking the other man's cock.

And what a cock it was.

Duo flushed, remembering that first night, when Zechs had stripped down and Duo had found himself staring at the man's flaccid cock. Merquise's entire body was impressive, hard lines and trim, flexing muscles. The man was dangerous, and peacetime had done very little to soften him. And his cock, despite _actually_ being soft, had not been small, had not been circumcised, and had most definitely been a recurring feature in Duo's fantasies when he masturbated.

Fantasies that had most definitely involved Duo doing what Mark was doing right now. Duo desperately wanted to see Merquise's cock fully erect, and he hoped Mark didn't get him off before he had the chance.

As Mark's head bobbed up and down the unseen shaft, Merquise ran his fingers through the other man's hair, encouraging him.

And he spoke to him.

"Good. Very good. Ahhh."

Duo had never heard Merquise like this, which wasn't at all surprising, considering their interactions during the war and since, but he hadn't even thought Merquise _could_ sound that happy, that pleased.

He had the entirely unwelcome urge to hear Merquise's rough voice say those words to _him,_ and Duo was so disgusted with himself that he leaned forward to shut off the video.

But then Mark released Merquise's cock, the wet, fleshy sound of his mouth parting with it coming through crystal clear thanks to Jayesh's brilliance.

And Duo watched, transfixed, as Merquise's cock bobbed, gravity warring with the hard length, and _fuck_.

Duo's mouth felt completely dry, and all of the blood in his body was surely heading straight for his own dick, painfully hard and trapped in his too-tight, itchy regulation trousers.

Both men stripped out of the rest of their clothes, and Merquise maneuvered Mark fully onto the bed, positioning the other man on all fours. Merquise opened the drawer to one of the nightstands flanking the bed and pulled something out before kneeling behind Mark on the bed.

"Are you allergic to Lenis-Vitae?" Merquise asked the man.

"No," he assured him.

"Good. LMI's most _useful_ development to date," Merquise said as he ran one hand down Mark's spine and over the curve of his ass.

"Amen to that," Mark practically growled.

Sitting alone in his apartment, food abandoned on the coffee table, Duo had to agree.

Lenis-Vitae had hit the market almost three years ago, and the anti-viral spermicidal lubricant had gone a _very_ long way towards eliminating the transference of sexually-spread diseases. It was particularly popular in the colonies, where the biohazard waste of used condoms had always been a minor problem. And it had also done wonders for reproductive rights, and Duo remembered the articles about LMI donating supplies of the lubricant to countries and colonies where women's rights were weakest.

Duo wondered if Relena had been behind that, or if Merquise had done it for the PR.

Merquise took his time preparing Mark, asking the other man how it felt, asking him what he wanted and listening to Mark's gasps of pleasure and his raspy voice assuring Merquise that _that_ , _right there_ was what he wanted, was more than Duo could handle.

He eased open the fly of his trousers and shoved the waistband of his briefs down to free his aching cock.

As Merquise slid into Mark's body in one smooth, sinuous thrust, Duo groaned in time with Mark.

The man's face was buried in the duvet cover on the bed, his hands twisting the fabric and his voice only slightly muffled as he made it very clear just how good it felt to have Merquise fucking him.

Duo could hear the ragged breathing of both men, could hear Merquise grunt as he pushed into the other man's body with one purposeful, forceful stroke after another.

And he could could hear his own breathing, could feel his thundering heartbeat and he moved his hand faster, gripping his cock tightly and wishing with every pathetic ounce of his body that Merquise was fucking _him_ instead of Mark.

He wondered if Merquise would waste compliments on _him_ , or if he would just snarl and whisper insults and commands as he pounded into Duo's body. Merquise wasn't being _gentle_ with Mark, but he wasn't punishing him, either, wasn't battling against him or trying to put him in his place. Mark probably hadn't been roughly pushed against the wall of a bathroom and told he didn't belong, hadn't found himself getting painfully aroused while fighting with Merquise on the floor of his library, hadn't been pinned down by the other man and had to hold himself absolutely still so he didn't start humping against him.

Merquise gave another thrust, deeper than the others, and Mark groaned.

"Yes," Merquise sighed. " _Yes_." He gave a few more erratic thrusts, clutching Mark's hips tightly.

The man took a moment to recover, leaning forward to press his face against Mark's back while his harsh breathing echoed in Duo's apartment, silent except for _his_ harsh breathing and the sound of his hand frantically working his cock.

Merquise straightened up, bringing Mark with him and positioning the other man to straddle Merquise's thighs. He steadied Mark with one hand on his chest, fingers splayed wide.

With his other hand, Merquise fiddled with the bottle of lubricant, managing to spread some over his hand before he wrapped it around Mark's neglected cock.

Mark gasped at the feel of the cold gel, and then gasped again as Merquise clearly did _something_ he liked.

Merquise chuckled again, and the sound went right to Duo's balls, like an electrical shock, and Duo dug his free hand into his left thigh.

 _Fuck_.

Merquise stroked Mark's cock and Mark thrust up into his grip, fucking the hand holding him and fucking the cock that was likely still in his ass at the same time, and Duo wondered if Merquise was hard, wondered if he was one of those whose cock softened almost instantly after ejaculation or if his erection lingered.

Duo came before Mark did, grunting with the effort, with relief more than any pleasure, and as he looked down at the semen on the front of his shirt, Duo felt a wave of disgust.

Jacking off to surveillance footage of _Zechs Merquise_ fucking his lawyer.

That, he was certain, was a new low.

-o-

Footnote: I will NOT kill Eun Park. She will live. I won't say more than that, but I want to assure anyone who cares that she's not going to be sacrificed for more angst.

Also, I'm sorry that this chapter got a little long. There was some… well, there was some smut to attend to.


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: For Crown of Winterthorne, as a bribe for more of her AMAZING Westworld 2x3 fic.

A/N2: Title from the song by Stars

A/N3: Always, always thankful to Ro for beta reading and friendship. You are amazing.

A/N4: Okay, here's the deal. Writing is tough, especially for me. Over the years I've been lucky to have incredible people support me and tell me how much they enjoy my work, but I've also had those comments and reviews that just completely derail me and make me wonder why the hell I'm doing any of this or why I'm enough of an idiot to think anyone would even care.

So, no, this is not an update on any of the many WIPs I have going, and if you don't enjoy this fic then I am sorry.

But if you do, even a little, I cannot express how much it means to me to see that someone took the time to leave a review. Even if that review is "thanks" - it has a HUGE impact.

ALSO: THANK YOU SO SO SO SO SO MUCH to everyone who has left a review for this on and AO3. I seriously… I LOVE you all and am so so so grateful. I know I don't always respond, but I am just… I'm so very very happy every time I see one and I feel SO good about this story and I'm so happy people like it and just… thank you. Thank you.

A/N5: POVs are going to switch back and forth between Duo and Zechs. Might be two chapters in each or just one, depends on the pacing.

Warnings: angst, language, violence, sex, death, blood

Pairings: 6x2, others…

 _Midnight Coward_

Chapter Nine

The conference room was Zechs's favorite part of the office suite that MIG occupied on the forty-sixth and forty-seventh floors of a building in the financial district of Manhattan. The view was breathtaking, the corner of the room offering not just a look of the bay, Ellis and Governor's Islands, but of the spires of other towering buildings in the district and beyond.

It was one of the reasons Zechs had chosen this suite over the others Petra had shown him. The view from his own office was of the bay alone, and _both_ views were about as far from the dusty, red sprawl of emptiness that he had been faced with every day on Mars as possible.

He could look out of these windows for hours.

Except, of course, that he rarely had hours to devote to such pursuits.

Then again, considering that the meeting Petra had finally been able to arrange with the KV board had been slated to start fifteen minutes ago, there was every chance Zechs would have the time _now_.

It had taken a week of dodged calls until Petra _finally_ cornered the KV CEO into agreeing to this.

Zechs knew better than to have any expectations, knew that KV had made it very clear even _before_ the attempt on Zechs's life that they had hesitations about the acquisition.

Hesitations that Zechs had been more than happy to assuage before. But _now_ \- now, he was just irritated.

The tardiness of the board was doing nothing to alleviate that irritation, and Zechs started mentally revising the MIG offer. He would make it more lucrative, would go around the board and get the workers to vote on it, and he would ensure that the _board_ got tidy little sums and were voted out. Maybe the workers would like to vote in new board members.

Zechs had done that with LMI, and the employees had been thrilled with the arrangement, managing themselves with very little input from him, and achieving results that proved self-governance was, in fact, feasible.

He was just about to step out of the conference room and tell Petra to get the president of the KV worker's union on the phone when she stepped into the conference room herself.

Her lips were compressed, never a good sign, and she held the door open for a single, balding man with olive skin and a suit that was somehow both too large and too small for him.

The man's shoulders were clearly more narrow than the jacket, and the shoulders sloped downwards in an unnatural, comical angle. The torso of the jacket, however, strained to remain closed over the man's girth.

He clearly did not wear bespoke suits.

It always baffled Zechs when he encountered members of the elite who wore poorly-fitted clothes - what were they _possibly_ spending their money on that didn't allow them to buy properly-fitting clothing?

"Sir, Mr. Vadala is here to see you."

Diego Vadala, the CEO, who had ousted the co-founder of the company, Alex Kaddour, just fourteen months ago.

Zechs raised an eyebrow.

"You seem to be short a few board members," he pointed out.

His mild tone had Vadala scowling. He looked over at his shoulder at Petra, as though trying to signal for her to leave.

Petra looked at Zechs, who nodded, and she closed the door as she stepped out of the room.

"The board couldn't make it. This is just a courtesy, Merquise. Considering all of the effort you've gone to and… well, the unfortunate situation you find yourself in, we decided we owed you this much."

Zechs arched an eyebrow, and gestured for Vadala to take a seat.

The other man did so, huffing slightly and looking even more uneasy as Zechs moved to the side table that held coffee, tea and an impressive array of sugar-drenched baked goods.

"Can I get you anything?" The question, the tone and the bland look on Zechs's face made Vadala even more uncomfortable, and Zechs had to fight a smirk.

"No, no. I-"

"I insist. After all, we planned to host an entire board." Zechs looked around the empty conference table. "And I would hate for all of this to go to waste. Coffee or tea?"

Vadala just stared at him, mouth open and eyes wide.

Treize had taught Zechs this particular trick.

Only a few years older than Zechs, Treize still battled against the idiotic notions that his age meant he should defer to anyone over thirty. He used to host little soirees in the officer's mess halls or Michelin-quality restaurants. He would invite whatever military or political figures were currently in the way of his plans and insist on serving them himself. The image of Treize Khushrenada, decorated Specials pilot, ruthless politician and thorn in the side of Romafeller and the Old Guard, serving his enemies and detractors _tea_ had unsettled everyone. And Treize had used that to his advantage, keeping them off-guard and making it very, _very_ clear that he was superior to everyone his icy glance touched.

Zechs held up the pot of tea and arched an eyebrow.

Vadala remained mute, but he shook his head in the negative.

Zechs gave a careless shrug, and instead loaded a small plate with an assortment of sweets and set it down in front of Vadala.

"Please," he waved at the plate.

Vadala looked from it to Zechs, watching him finally sit down in the chair across from him.

Zechs crossed his legs and folded his hands together.

"Now," Zechs said with a smile, "just what situation is it that you think is so unfortunate?"

"The, uh, the… the dead boy."

Zechs pretended at enlightment.

"Ah. Yes. That _was_ unfortunate." The papers hadn't said a word about Nick's death being an attempt on Zechs's life. He wasn't sure if he was grateful or resentful of that. Instead, the story came off as some kind of tawdry brothel feud. It was an insult to Nick, and Zechs had already instructed Petra to start shifting resources and slowly start buying shares of the _News_ and _Herald._

"I fail to see _how_ that impacts our business ventures," he added.

Vadala pulled the plate of sweets towards himself and started to rip the streusel into small pieces. Flakes scattered across the table in front of him.

"It's… well, it's a little _unseemly_ for KV to be considering a merger with a man who…" Vadala trailed off.

Zechs arched an eyebrow and made an encouraging gesture.

"For a man who what?"

"Frequents a _brothel_ ," Vadala finally hissed.

Zechs nodded and looked out the windows again. The sun was setting towards the west and the sky was streaked with orange and lavender.

"It is, perhaps, not as discreet as an escort service. I've considered going that route - inviting talented, clever-tongued companions into my home to service my _needs_ but, well… I'm rather picky about who I invite into my home. And I've never felt the urge to _hide_ any of my needs. Then again, perhaps this _unfortunate situation_ should open my eyes to new possibilities."

Zechs turned away from the windows and looked at Vadala. He had decided to take a bite of the streusel, and there was a smattering of crumbs on his chin and lips.

"Tell me, which escort service is it that you use?"

Vadala stared at him.

"What? I- I would _never- ever_ -"

"It seems you go back and forth between a handful of services - Eros, Chloe, Valentine. Do you have a favorite?"

Vadala's face started to turn a brilliant shade of red, and he coughed once and then again before dissolving into a fit of hacking.

With an irritated sigh, Zechs rose to his feet and poured a glass of water. He set it in front of Vadala, who gulped it.

"You, you think you can _blackmail_ me?" Vadala sputtered.

Zechs sighed.

"I _know_ I can blackmail you. I had, however, wanted to enter into this partnership as _equals_. MIG can do great things for KV, and your company will further expand our portfolio and set up a foundation for great, _mutual_ success.

Vadala managed to regain control of himself.

"No, that's not possible."

Zechs arched an eyebrow.

"Not possible? I assure you, unless you've falsified your profit reports, I can certainly turn KV into a multi-billion credit generator and secure contracts in several colonial zones."

" _No_ ," Vadala ground out. "It's not possible because we've already agreed to another merger. The documents were signed yesterday morning."

"A merger with _whom_?" Zechs demanded, his voice soft and deadly, the voice that all of his subordinates knew to fear.

Vadala shrank back in his chair for a moment, but then straightened.

"Noventa Fundamenta," he managed to breathe.

Zechs felt a spike of anger, and he forced himself to sit back and appear calm.

"Indeed? And just what did Sylvia Noventa offer you that I did not?"

"It's- it's not about the offer," Vadala stuttered, his bravado apparently spent. "She's- Her company is in line with our _values_. We- we have investors to think of and-"

"Investors that will be _delighted_ to learn of your patronage to the various young women of our grand city," Zechs murmured.

Vadala paled.

"I have a _family_!"

Zechs rolled his eyes. That clearly hadn't stopped the man from engaging in acts that he himself deemed to be debauched. In Zechs's mind, they deserved the truth. Then again, perhaps they were already aware of what a spineless man their paterfamilias was.

He wouldn't, of course, bother with taking the blackmail public. Not at this date. There was no immediate gain for him, and as much as it might give him a moment of petty revenge, it served no greater purpose. Restraint, Zechs had learned after years on Mars, was crucial.

Still… he made a mental note to have Petra send Mrs. Vadala a few data files.

"Well, I _do_ hope your family is as comfortable with the values of Noventa Fundamenta as you are."

Zechs rose to his feet, and Vadala stared up at him.

"You… you won't say anything? You won't leak-"

"Mr. Vadala, you did, indeed, do me a great courtesy by coming here in person. Please, extend my congratulations to Ms. Noventa on adding KV to her portfolio. I wish the both of you _all_ the success in the world. So long as it doesn't compare to mine," he added with a sharp look.

Vadala was still seated, still staring.

"Perhaps you would care to pack up a few of those on your way out?" Zechs suggested, and waved at the treats. "Be my guest."

He left the room, going against the courtesy that demanded he wait to see the other man out.

Zechs didn't want to spend another minute in the obsequious hypocrite's company now that it wouldn't benefit him.

He left the conference room and strode down the hall to his office, keeping his stride measured and his face neutral.

More lessons from Treize, who had always found it so easy to know what Zechs was thinking and had warned him time and time again not to let his anger take the lead.

Zechs should have learned to listen to him sooner.

Petra sat at her desk in the reception area in front of Zechs's office. She looked up at his approach, accurately judged his mood, and frowned.

"They said no," she guessed as he walked past her and into his own office.

"They accepted a deal from Noventa Fundamenta," he corrected, and poured himself a glass of whiskey. He gestured towards Petra with the bottle and she inclined her head. He poured a second for her and passed it over.

Petra made a face.

"Send over a gift basket to the brat. Offer her my congratulations."

Zechs hadn't met Sylvia until after the war, though he had long-been familiar with her family. He had made the mistake of underestimating her three years ago, when she beat him to a merger with a colonial freight transport company. Ever since then, he had kept an eye on her and, more often than not, found that NF was his main competitor for mergers and acquisitions.

"Yes, sir." Petra took a sip of the whiskey in her hand.

"And find out what she's looking to do next - it's getting tiresome to have her keep pursuing _my_ leads."

Petra nodded.

"Of course. There were a few calls during your… meeting."

Zechs sighed and downed his whiskey in one swallow, revelling in the smooth toffee aftertaste.

He sat down on the leather armchair across from his desk.

"Who?"

Petra didn't need to consult any notes. She had a nearly perfect memory, something that had once disconcerted Zechs, but that he now valued immensely.

"Trevor Shaw, the nano-tech graduate student from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology called again."

Zechs had to roll his eyes. The boy was nothing if not determined.

"He needs to learn social skills," Zechs muttered. He had met the boy at a conference, had been _stalked_ by him for three days before finally agreeing to look over some of his research proposals. He was brilliant - the ideas solid - but he was very, _very_ enthusiastic. And young. And naive. And perhaps there was some not-insignificant part of Zechs that resented the boy for being _able_ to be a socially-inept science devotee.

"Yes," Petra agreed, her voice devoid of inflection, but Zechs could read the censure in her eyes.

 _He_ was hardly one to talk about social skills.

"What does he want? I've already offered him an internship for this summer. Don't tell me he wants to start early?" Zechs did _not_ want to deal with a puppy nipping at his heels in addition to everything else.

Petra's lips twitched, but she got herself under control quickly enough.

"No, just a tour of the facilities. He's on some sort of break next week. He would also like to ask you a few questions. Some sort of interview to fulfill a course requirement."

Zechs gave her a look that made it very clear how he felt about that request.

"Shall I tell him you are available on Wednesday?"

"If you must."

"Eszter Sipos also called."

That got Zechs's full attention. The brothel madame _very_ rarely sought him out. She had insisted, at the start of their arrangement, that she wanted Zechs's reputation and his capital - _not_ his opinions on how to run her establishment.

"Is there a situation?" He was almost afraid of her answer.

"I'm not sure. She wouldn't tell me anything."

Zechs sighed and nodded. He would have to call her back immediately.

"Anything else?"

She finished off her glass of whiskey and collected his empty glass as well. She set them on the bartop for the cleaning staff to deal with later.

"Intira Parthong finished her background checks."

Parthong had been with Zechs in White Fang, had found herself sent to Mars, and had made it clear on multiple occasions that she was more than willing to lay down her life for Zechs after he saved her from a lifetime on that distant rock. An L1 native, she had been an Intelligence Officer with the Alliance before joining White Fang, and she was one of the most emotionless, brilliant people he had ever met.

"And?" Zechs had asked her to check out all of their people after Peter and his unknown connections to the _vor_.

"Leo, the doorman at your apartment, apparently had a few run-ins with the law when he was a juvenile. The court records are sealed, but Intira has them if you want to look them over. Several of the boys at Adonis have slightly more complicated backgrounds than they led us to believe. But she said no one raised any flags."

" _Peter_ didn't raise any flags," Zechs pointed out.

Petra nodded and bowed her head.

"She is working with Abdul to set up… interviews with the boys from Adonis."

"She needs to be gentle with them," Zechs felt the need to say.

Petra nodded again.

"She understands. She will also interview the guards working with Abdul, and she wants you to consider bringing on three new guards at the brothel and adding two full-time bodyguards to your retinue."

"I already _have_ a bodyguard," Zechs pointed out. Three men, all vetted by Parthong personally, rotated shifts to keep watch over him. He had begrudgingly agreed with Parthong that he needed full-time protection after the incident with Horvat, but he drew the line at allowing the guards into his apartment, his offices at MIG or LMI. They could maintain a perimeter outside and they could escort him around the city, but he wasn't an infant in need of having his hand held.

"Intira thinks a larger force will present a stronger deterrent."

Zechs snorted.

"Intira thinks I'm incapable of defending myself against a papercut."

Petra allowed herself to smirk.

"I doubt that is the case now, sir. Not after what happened last week."

"Hm. Tell her no."

"Very well. What about upping security measures at the LMI facility?"

Zechs frowned. There didn't seem much point - Horvat had made no attempt to acquire information from Zechs before charging into the brothel room and attempting to kill him.

"No, there's no need to concern the employees."

Petra nodded.

"Very well. Oh, and Mark Walters sent over a thank you note."

Zechs felt his lips twitch.

"Did he now?"

"Yes, sir. I have it, if you would care to read it?"

Zechs shrugged.

Petra left the office, returning only a moment later with a cream envelope in her hand.

It had been opened, which was the practice they had agreed upon years ago when Zechs had had to deal with a great deal of unwanted personal correspondence after returning from Mars.

Mark's penmanship was elegant and precise, the few words he had included in the note succinct.

 _I am grateful that I could assist you, and if you have any need of my services in the future, it would be my pleasure._

"Shall I arrange for him to-"

"No," Zechs sighed. Mark had been enjoyable, had been a pleasant way to spend the evening, and hadn't offered Zechs a single complaint or disappointed look when he thanked him for his company and sent him on his way just after midnight and several hours of sex. But Zechs didn't make a habit of forming relationships with those who worked for him, or around him.

"Send him something nice. Not _too_ showy. He seems the restrained sort."

"I will. Would you like to sign the note, or shall I use the stamp?"

"The stamp."

Zechs sighed and rose to his feet.

"Connect me to Eszter, and then have my car brought around. I'll leave as soon as I've dealt with her."

"Yes, sir. Your reservations tonight are at Bouley."

Zechs nodded in acknowledgement, and walked around his desk and sat in the leather executive chair.

As Petra left the office, he turned to look out over the bay, to see twilight shroud the monuments dedicated to democracy and freedom.

After a moment, Petra called out to him.

"I have her on the line."

Zechs reached behind him to pick up the phone.

"Eszter, I hope you are well."

He heard the click of Petra hanging up, and Eszter made a noise of annoyance.

"Yes, and so do I," she murmured.

Despite the annoyances of his day, Zechs found himself smirking at her tone and words.

"Petra said you needed me," he couldn't resist goading her.

There was a moment of silence as Eszter no doubt bit back a few choice responses.

" _Yes_ ," she finally conceded. "Ever since the… incident, there have been some concerns."

Zechs wasn't surprised. He had been wondering about the fallout. A murder in a brothel, after all, wasn't the kind of thing that had a positive impact on profits.

"The regular clients are staying away?" he guessed.

Eszter snorted.

"Oh no, they've kept up their regular appointments, and we've doubled our waiting list for new clients."

Zechs frowned.

"What?"

"Your reputation. Everyone with delusions of grandeur wants to be part of your club."

Zechs rolled his eyes.

"It's hardly a club."

"No, but I do have some franchise opportunities to discuss with you later. The reality is that your patronage makes Adonis exclusive and desirable - as I've always told you. Your name in the papers, _our_ name in the papers, has only increased your infamy."

"And the clients aren't afraid of being murdered?"

"No. The follow-up columns in the papers made it very clear that Nick's death was the result of a love triangle and a security guard in debt."

The tale made Zechs feel nauseous. But Parthong and Petra had come up with it together, had fed it to not just the _Herald_ and the _News,_ but to the handful of reputable news outlets who enjoyed printing a salacious article every once in awhile.

"The clients seem to think it makes everything more exciting." Eszter sounded judgemental, but not resentful. She was, above all else, practical. Adonis was hers, and while the boys who worked there were her source of income, they were not her children. She cared about them, but only to a point.

"Then what are the concerns?"

"The boys," she sighed. "Yesterday, there were two Preventers agents snooping around - that long-haired one from the wake and some fouled-mouthed little Asian thing. They've put everyone on edge, and _they_ are afraid."

Zechs sighed. He couldn't blame them. Their place of work had been invaded by a professional assassin and one of their brethren had died.

"What do you want me to do? More guards are being hired to keep them safe. Do we need to give them raises?"

Eszter made a tsking sound.

"No, they simply need some assurances. You haven't been by since Nick died. Having you here would go a long way to soothing them. Speak to them. Remind them how much they worship you. Pick a new favorite."

Zechs's stomach rebelled at the very idea.

He had stayed away for several reasons, chief among them being a lack of desire to put any of those boys at risk with his presence. Until yesterday, he hadn't even felt particularly in the mood for intimacy of any kind.

"Eszter, need I remind you that Horvat was there to assassinate _me_?"

"No, you do _not_ need to remind me," she growled. "But our boys don't know that, and our boys need _you_ to convince them that what happened to Nick won't happen to them next."

Zechs swallowed against the bile in his throat.

Treize had been exceptionally good at inspiring the loyalty of his subordinates, had subconsciously and perhaps consciously taught Zechs the value of a kind word and a look of commiseration.

"Very well. The day after tomorrow. In the afternoon so that it won't interfere too much with business."

"Perfect. Do you have anyone in mind?"

Zechs closed his eyes against the unwanted image of Nick, naked and on his knees and grinning up at him.

"No," he rasped. "I don't care who you pick for me."

-o-


End file.
